The Time That We Love Best
by Nehszriah
Summary: Clydebank, Scotland, 1940. John Smith is just trying to get through the war while making himself useful, trading in his paintbrushes for a rivet gun. After a bad day at work, he meets a young English girl at the pub who reads him a bit too well and lingers on his mind a bit too much. [Lots of fluff, slice-of-life]
1. January 1940

I'm going against my better judgement in posting this before I'm done writing but considering it's been two months since I started and I think it's about time I share. Why? Because WWII AU.

Also on my writing tumblr.

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><p><em>Roamin' in the gloamin' on the bonnie banks o' Clyde<em>  
><em> Roamin' in the gloamin' with my lassie by my side<em>  
><em> When the sun has gone to rest<em>  
><em> That's the time that we love best<em>  
><em> Ach, it's lovely roamin' in the gloamin'<em>

-Sir Harry Lauder, 1911

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><p><span>Chapter One<span>

It was January 1940. After coming off another twelve-hour shift, John Smith trudged his way up to the bar and ordered a pint. He hadn't even bothered going home to change out of the overalls and jumper and heavy boots he wore to work first—after a mismatched day where nothing seemed to go right, he just needed to sit down and relax. At the pub there were no new kids to train, no riggings to snap on him, no rivet guns to malfunction, no things to drop three stories and spill oil all over the shipyard floor… now it was just him and a pint and nobody else to harp on him. He took his beer with him and sat down at a table towards the back of the establishment, away from the dance floor and most of the other patrons. The past few months had seen his regular joint turn from the same people he saw day in and day out near his entire life to burgeoning nearly to the point of capacity as people from all over the United Kingdom had come to work in the shipbuilding yards. It was hectic, but everyone was so enthusiastic that it made it all worth it.

John scowled at the crowd as he drank his beer. Sure he could have gone over and chatted with his old mates in the one corner or gone to see what some of the young blokes he worked with at the yard were up to, but he was not feeling it. The past three months working long, hard hours was wearing him down quicker than the previous three years. He was aging faster, he noticed, with his face growing more drawn and grey starting to appear in his hair. Well he _had_ turned forty-eight not that long ago, but it was just jarring when looking at a photo from January last year to find his face not nearly as angular and his hair not yet beginning to sprinkle with signs of age.

Finishing off his beer, John took the glass up to the bar and ordered another. He brought it back, only to find that his table had been occupied—two of the local lads that worked with him in the shipyard and a young woman he had never seen before with brown hair and eyes and possessing the most petite frame he could imagine. John paused before sitting down in the empty chair next to the young woman.

"Oh, was this your table?" one of the young men asked. The smirk on his face told John he was there to pick a fight, but could be diffused by age and wisdom.

"How observant," the older man sniped.

"So then you were here with her?" the other asked.

"No…" John replied.

"Then what are _you_ doing here?" the first asked the woman. "You're English, but you're not one of the migrants at the factories and I've never seen you around so you _had_ to have moved here recently. What is your game?"

"That's enough; if you're going to be too forward from the get-go, at least be nice about it," John growled. This was not the day to cross him and risk him slipping into a more caustic attitude than necessary. He turned to the woman and frowned, his voice no less harsh than when lecturing the boys. "I do apologize for the lads, Miss. They're a bit rough, but that's how we Scotsmen tend to come."

"It's alright—boys will be arrogant little buggers until they stop being boys and just become arrogant buggers," the woman said with a smile and a straight face. The two young men grumbled and left, as they both realized there was not only more work in ruffling her feathers than they planned on, but they'd have to deal with one of their gruffer coworkers as well.

"My… aren't you the one with her feet on the ground," John chuckled. He took a sip of his beer and looked at the woman… no, she was almost a child herself. She couldn't have been no older than twenty-one or twenty-two, with her lipstick a bright red to match her dress. "They do have a point though: you don't exactly make sense here. You know, if you don't want the attention it's better to just get a bottle of whiskey from the shop and drink it at home."

"Can't," the woman replied flatly.

"What, you can't buy a bottle of whiskey?"

"I hate whiskey."

"And yet you moved to Scotland. Would it be rude of me to ask when you first came to grace our little slice of the River Clyde, or would you rather just drink and forget about outside for a while?"

"Drink, please," she grumbled. Her accent was very northern English, which did explain how come the boys chose to single out her. She took a drink of her beer and shuddered, clearly not used to the taste. "They should do the women of Clydebank a favor and go enlist."

"They're on reserve," John explained. "Most of the men in here either didn't make the first cut or are ineligible. Some are even barred from enlisting because they're too valuable in their trade."

"Which are you? Tell me," the girl asked, her turn to be forward. John shrugged.

"Too old. I don't look like this just because of the yards wearing me down."

"They turned away a shipbuilder because he's too old? What, did you miss the cut-off by a year?"

"No, they turned away an artist who was three years shy of fifty who instead helps the war effort by building ships alongside women and boys and crippled old men… not that there's anything wrong with women or boys or crippled old men, but it still does a number to you when you know you still have it in you but no one will give you a chance." He looked at the girl, who seemed to be studying him carefully. "So what about you Miss…?"

"Oh, sorry. Oswald. Clara Oswald. I just came up here from London a couple days ago with my kids. We're waiting to get them sorted to country boarding houses and foster care."

John had heard about the mass exodus from London that was starting to take place, planned to eventually move hundreds of thousands of mothers and children out of London and away from potential Luftwaffe raids. Did a group come in town recently? Maybe they were beginning to run out of space in the English countryside and decided to reinvade Scotland with mothers and babes. Maybe the women took turns watching each other's children for the night, so that they can all rest. Whatever was the matter, John knew he had no place to mock her for that.

"I see. That's very brave of you, dear," John said respectfully. From the looks of her, she probably had a baby waiting for her at her place… maybe even a child just young enough to stay home from school yet. The young woman sighed and took a deep drink of her beer.

"Thank you," she replied. "It's going to be hell trying to keep all those kids in line while trying to find homes for them. _I_ actually have to find them. Can you believe that? Twenty-five homes for these kids and they're already starting to not listen to me…"

"Pardon…?" John was confused; twenty-_five_?!

"Yes. I'm a schoolteacher," Clara said. She looked at John's baffled face and laughed. "What? Did you think I came up here with kids of my own? I'm not even dating anyone, let alone married with kids!"

The tips of John's ears turned red, partly from embarrassment and partly out of the day's exhaustion catching up to him. "I'm sorry, Miss Oswald. Most of the ladies I work with are mothers, even the young ones, so I tend to assume…"

"No, that's fine," Clara smiled. "I'm actually flattered you think I'm mature enough to be a mum. Everyone else tells me I'm just too flippant and boss around other people's children like a meddling old maid in the making."

"Oh, there's time for you yet," John chuckled. He gave her an encouraging smile and finished off his beer. "You're not flippant; you're good at being in charge."

"How would you know? We just met."

"You handle a large number of school children and are escorting them far from their home and yours in a time of crisis. I wouldn't call that a bad thing."

"Thank you… um…"

"John. You can call me John."

"Thank you John," Clara smiled. She looked over her shoulder, over towards where the crowd became concentrated on the lacquered hardwood in front of a small brass band, and back at John. "Would you care to dance? I think I've got time for one go before I have to get back to the kids."

"How could I refuse?" John stood up and held out his hand, Clara laughing at the formality and taking it as she rose to her feet. They walked over to the dance floor and waited for the song to end. During the pause, they edged their way in and slowly danced as the brassy tune kicked back up.

Licking his lips nervously, John looked at the woman in his arms. She barely came up to his chin and that was _with_ heeled shoes. He unconsciously began to pull her in closer, to which she drew away a little.

"Now, now, none of that," Clara scolded. "I asked for a dance, not for my door to be beaten down by an angry wife in a few hours."

"I'd like to know how that would happen, considering I'm not married," John said. "Never have."

Clara looked up at him quizzically. "Really?"

"I might've married, if the Great War didn't shuffle my life around for four straight years. After that I just didn't really pursue it. Wasn't a high priority, if you can infer the sentiment."

"You served then, and still want to serve now?"

"I'm old, Miss Oswald. I've lived life and I know what it takes to be a soldier. I'd rather our young men be the ones dancing while on reserve."

"No; you just want adventure."

Those words hit John oddly as they slowly spun in place. How could she figure something like that? For being such a difficult a person to read she was tapping buttons that weren't exactly correct, but not _in_correct either. He blinked at her.

"Adventure…?"

"Yes. Excitement, thrills, adventures… all those things."

"…and how can you tell?"

"You're dancing with me, and I wasn't even alive during the Great War. I'd say that's adventure enough for a Tommy."

"That sure would be," John admitted, "but I'm not sure I would call going off to war an adventure. Maybe one day a long time ago, when I was your age, but not now."

Clara raised her eyebrows and tried to reword her statement. "You're right—maybe '_adventure_' isn't the proper word for the situation. It's a bit callous now that I think about it. Probably more like… a purpose."

John looked down at this woman, this girl, this stranger with her perfectly foreign accent and dark brown eyes and a scent that was a mixture of the liquor and smoke of the pub with a swarthy cologne, and pondered. She was hitting the buttons more precisely now—a big, red button with white lettering that screeched loudly as it was pressed. _Purpose_. He bent down and lowered his voice so that he could whisper in her ear.

"…well, I guess I am."

John stopped dancing and straightened his posture as the song ended. He bent down again, slightly this time, and kissed the back of Clara's hand.

"Thank you, Miss Oswald, for the dance."

"Please John, call me Clara."

"Okay Clara. See you around?"

"Definitely."


	2. Two Weeks Later

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, followed, or even just read. I appreciate the support since honestly, I was not too sure how the climate was for something like this.

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><p><span>Chapter Two<span>: _Two Weeks Later_

Out of all the places to see her, he imagined, the last of which involved him being at work in the shipyard. He was suspended high up near the top of the ship, tethered to the structure by a long length of rope. The riveting of the two plates was almost complete when the younger of his two coworkers pointed out the cluster of children headed by a teacher-looking figure.

"Hey, I wonder who let them in," Collette said, much too pensive for her normal bubbly self. John looked under his shoulder and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled—there was Clara, the young English woman he had danced with at the pub, leading a gaggle of small children. Will, the foreman, was with them and looked like he was giving a tour that conveniently had a stop no more than a football pitch's width away.

"It's like none of them have ever seen the yards before," chuckled Verity, another riveter. She was the direct opposite of Collette—smug and with enough years of mothering on her to have it as her default state.

"They might not have," John said. "Those kids are from London."

"London…? How do you know that?" Collette asked. John tried to shrug casually, but it came off as a twitch.

"Oh, I talked with their teacher in the pub a while back; that's her down there," he said. He paused for a moment before he moved over to the truss the equipment had been brought up on. After hanging his rivet gun and bucket on their storage hooks, John began to mess with the rope on his harness.

"John, what are you doing?" Verity asked.

"I'm going down to talk to the teacher for a moment. I'll be right back."

Verity gave John a disapproving glare as he descended down to the yard floor and unhitched his harness. After taking a deep breath to settle his stomach, he began the brisk walk over to Clara. She was standing a few yards away from her group of students as they all were clustered around Will as he demonstrated how to weld.

"Uh… hi there," John coughed, trying to sound casual. Clara looked over her shoulder and smiled when she saw who it was.

"Oh, hello," she said cheerily. "How's it? Been a while."

"Yeah… it has, um… hasn't it?"

There was a pause of silence between them, which filled instantly with sounds of metal on metal and people shouting amongst themselves and the _clank-clank-clank-clank_ of machinery. They looked at one another awkwardly, aware of the many eyes that were able to spy on them at that very moment.

Clara was the one that broke the silence. "So… what have you been up to lately?" John twitched slightly, turning the motion into a nervous laugh.

"Oh, not much. I haven't seen you down at the pub."

"I've… been busy. You know, with the kids."

'_Of course_,' John thought silently. He tried to not stare at Clara, his eyes flicking from her hair to the collar of her dress and even the lipstick she wore that was a slightly different shade of red from the last time they spoke. '_She's probably all sorts of busy in a place she doesn't know and with other people's children to look after._'

"Oh… if that's the case…" he started. John looked at the ground in defeat, trying not to bite his lip.

"No, I didn't mean it like that!" Clara replied. John looked back at Clara and blinked. "I mean, it's been nothing but the kids and the boarding house day in and day out and at this point my head's spinning."

"W-well then, would you be interested in getting a drink later on?" John asked. "After I get off work, of course, which is six…? Yeah, six. Does six work?"

"Six-thirty; gives you time to actually walk over to I assume the pub we met at."

"Oh… oh, yeah, that's right. So six-thirty?"

Clara gave a small smile in return. "Yeah." She was about to continue when she heard a small shriek—looking over her shoulder they saw that Will had the welding mask on one of the kids, who seemed to have a poor hold on the flame and was pointing it every which direction. Clara sighed. "Now if you excuse me, I have to relieve the foreman of my children. See you then, John."

"Bye, Clara."

John walked back to the rope and reattached his harness, allowing himself to rappel back up to where his coworkers were at. Verity and Collette looked over at him, the former frowning.

"What…?" John asked defensively. Collette just giggled, while Verity's look became critical.

"Stop with that stupid grin," Verity said. "It's creepy."

"I'm what…?" John asked. He suddenly became very conscious of his face; he _was_ grinning. He flashed his teeth, making Verity cringe. There was a funny feeling, down in the pit of his stomach, but it felt rather… well… exciting.

He really did not want the feeling to end.

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><p>John walked into the pub and looked around, attempting to spot Clara. He found her in the back corner with a basket of chips and two pints in front of her.<p>

"Ah, there you are. Thought you might be hungry," she said, motioning towards the food. John sat down and shoved a handful of chips in his mouth.

"I needed this," he said as soon he washed the chips down with some beer. "We ran over shift today, so forgive my appearance."

"You still look like you stuck your head under a faucet in the loo," Clara chuckled.

"That's because I did." John shrugged and popped two chips in his mouth. "So what if I work in a shipyard? I still want to look nice."

"But you're an artist—you said so yourself," Clara said. "What's an artist doing building warships? I understand it's to help the war effort, but aren't you better drawing propaganda or being a desk clerk somewhere?"

"I grew up around the trade, so I took what I could and what I could take at my age and experience level was a riveter's job," John replied. He took another sip of his beer and looked out at the other pub patrons. "They all thought I was daft for going to art school."

"My friends all thought I was a nutter for signing up to come here," Clara smirked. "I told them that someone has to be here to receive the children as they try to make it to safety, someone who was sure to know what London was like. It's just a rest until they get out to the country, but they need all the support they can get. Now here I am, on a first date where I share chips and a pint with a sweaty riveter who claims to be an _artist_."

"I am too an artist," John snapped back, careful to add a touch of playfulness to his voice.

"Then what did you do? Paint portraits?"

"There's more to Scottish art than portraiture, dear." He paused and put his pint down. "You know, this is actually our second date."

"First meetings count as first dates in Scotland?"

"Sure they do—we got in a dance, didn't we? Since that's the case, if you're still in such disbelief about my well-worked talents I propose we go take a look at my artwork," John smirked. He stopped himself, realizing that he was leaning in towards Clara and grinning probably a bit too toothily for what was appropriate. '_Simmer down, before you blow it_.' John leaned back and coughed into his fist, trying to act calmer. "That is, if you want to go look at my work we can. The only issue is that it's all at my house and I don't want to be a creep. It's up to you—second date or not I'm not going to trick you into coming home with me."

Clara sat in thought for a while before answering. "I guess it's alright. Where else can we go? My boarding house? The landlady would be scandalized."

"Then let's go," John said, knocking back the rest of his beer and leaving some money on the table for the bill. Clara quickly finished off her pint and they walked out, leaving the dancing and music behind them.

Walking along, John made small talk by explaining some of the local history to Clara as they went. He had lived in Clydebank for most of his life, making his memory of the place long and full of stories. Soon they were walking down a residential street that seemed oddly still in the early twilight.

"This is where you live?" Clara asked, looking around at the stonework houses.

"Yes. My granny's granddad built many of these houses during the first stages of the Clearances for those migrating to the cities. This was all farm back then, and was actually its own village proper if I recall correctly. Clydebank didn't even exist at the time."

"Did he build your house?"

"I live in his house." John turned and opened the front gate of a neatly-kept garden, which surrounded a home that looked conveniently sturdier than the rest of the street. He held the door for Clara, his chest tightening in nervousness as she entered.

Looking around, Clara marveled at all the paintings that hung on the walls and sat propped up along furniture in the front sitting room. Navigating the room yielded a plethora of pieces for Clara to rummage through. Some had frames, some were plain canvas; there were landscapes and portraits and animals and all sorts of interesting subjects for her to look at. They did not seem to be very well-organized and just sat wherever they pleased, telling her the homeowner was not used to entertaining.

"You did all of these?" she asked.

"Most of them," John said, drawing the drapes before turning on the lights. "Some came with the house; Granddad fancied himself a collector of fine art when most of what he bought was rubbish."

"So then you're a painter by trade?" Clara asked while flipping through some canvases. John pulled a thin book off a shelf and held it out towards her.

"Mostly in my twenties and early thirties. Up until recently I did this sort of work." Clara took the book from his hand and her eyes went wide at the cover.

"This is yours? You're the John Smith that illustrated '_Handy Hank of Hannover'_? This is one of the books I have my schoolchildren read!"

"Wrote and illustrated. I've done… oh gosh, I don't know how many of these books. Occasionally I get a stipend from royalties, but for the most part I don't see much of it anymore unless I turn in something new."

"…and you haven't had time lately, have you?" Clara asked. John shook his head and sat down on the sofa, stretching out and popping the sore vertebrae in his neck.

"The money I'm making now is at least steady," he admitted. "Before, thanks to rewrites and scrapped panels, I could go months without a payday. It wasn't exactly stressless and I've had my fair share of porridge weeks."

"…but it's what you love, isn't it?" Clara asked. She sat down and curled up into John's side as she flipped through the brightly-colored pages, so concentrated on what was in the book that she did not register John's flinching reaction to her presence. "I don't know much about art, but I can usually tell when an artist loves something he's done. You love these books, don't you?"

"They're different worlds that I control and can visit whenever I want," John admitted. He slid down the couch cushion, putting space between him and Clara. "If I didn't love that, I'd be a fool."

Clara put the book down on the coffee table and tucked her legs up underneath her. She looked at John, who was staring back with all the nervousness of someone about to be walked in on. She winced apologetically before leaning back into the couch, putting her hand down on the empty bit of cushion. After a moment, John cautiously put his hand next to hers, their fingers lightly grazing.

"John?"

"Yes Clara?" She took and moved her hand so it gently rested on his. He didn't flinch, which she took as a sign to continue.

"Can I be rude for a moment?"

"…I guess so."

"Why children's books? An unmarried, childless man writing and illustrating children's books seems a little odd when you think about it."

"Not to me," John said. "I figure that at least my stories and other worlds will never go to waste as long as I put them down for other people to read to their children. It's not a bad life, giving them what they don't have the time to create. Lots of people work incredibly hard, harder than I ever have, and knowing they don't have to think about something as simple as '_Handy Hank of Hannover_' or '_Silly Sarah's Circus_' or any of those other things… it makes me feel like I've helped them."

Clara paused for a moment. "You never wanted more?"

"Yes, but… it's a long story."

"Doors at the boarding house lock at midnight; I think I've got time."

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><p>After talking long past when evening had turned to night, Clara realized it was starting to get late. John insisted on walking her back to her boarding house due to how incredibly late it was. He was the one, after all, that had been keeping her out all night with war stories and tales of hobnobbing around the Glasgow art scene back in her toddler years. Clara surprised him by linking their arms together as they walked through the town. He didn't have the heart to tell her, but the last woman he walked arm-in-arm with was his late mother.<p>

They meandered along until they finally reached the large Victorian house Clara rented a room in. John accompanied her all the way to the door. "I guess this is as far as I'm allowed," he chuckled, shifting awkwardly on the porch. He bent down nearer to her eye level and kissed the back of Clara's hand. "Thank you for the evening. I hope this old man didn't bore you too much."

"No, actually, I enjoyed tonight." Clara leaned forward and crept up on her toes, landing a quick kiss on John's cheek. She hesitated, waiting for some sort of response to size up. In a single motion, John turned his head and left a peck on Clara's cheek before he straightened his back.

"Good night, Clara," John smiled. His eyes were full of shock, turning his expression into one that would have been considered twisted on any other occasion. "We should do this again."

"That'd be nice. Good night, John." Clara watched him as he stepped off the porch and walked towards the pavement. He turned around momentarily, to shove his hands in his pockets and toss her an awkward winking grin-farewell. She slid inside the house, only to be met with the stern glare from the house matron.

"I thought you said you had a date with one of the young men from the shipyards?" the matron asked.

"I said _a_ man from the shipyards. We just sat around and talked mostly, had tea. He tells the loveliest stories."

The matron frowned at her critically. "I don't know _what_ John Smith wants with you, but you watch out. I am not going to have any scandalous boarders in my house."

"Don't worry, ma'am; I know how to behave myself," Clara replied. She masked her annoyance with a smile—she was not a child and knew exactly which lines she could cross and which she couldn't. She _had_ pushed it a little far at first, but luckily she had backed down and neither of them had advanced further afterwards. John was not a quick London fling who knew he was there as long as both of them were interested; this was a man who would likely have far more repercussions to face when dating anyone, let alone an outsider. She began to walk up the stairs to her room but stopped halfway and looked at the matron locking the door. "Do you know him?"

"Yes," the matron nodded. "Two years under me in school, he was. So different from everyone else."

"How so?"

"Those stories you say he's good with—they started when he was a kid. Such an imagination on that one… it's borderline unnatural, like there's a whole bunch of him in that brain of his. You're a cheap thrill to him, something to satisfy all the other hims he thinks he is. He may be working in the shipyards, but he's not suited for the work—it'll age him too much and turn him into an old man before your eyes and then what will you have? A broken old pervert who still thinks he has the stay of a twenty-five year old. That's besides the fact I thought he caught some sort of way of living while at that art school that failed to include the fairer sex for the longest time."

"Mmm… that's not the impression I got…" Clara mused, mentally glossing over the harshness of the woman before her who was still, when all was said and done, her landlady. "How long did you think that?"

"From the time he came back home from the War until about five minutes ago," the matron frowned. "Now get upstairs; lights out in half an hour."

"Yes, ma'am." Clara finished climbing the stairs and crept through the hallway to her room so as not to wake anyone else. She quickly changed into her nightdress and hung up her skirt and blouse to be used again another day. Her bed felt comfortable and warm as she climbed in and nestled down. With the house dark and quiet, Clara looked up at the ceiling and, despite the warm duvet, had a shiver go down her spine.

John really was lovely and charming, despite warnings of how rough and abrasive Scottish men were, and she didn't feel as if he was in this for the cheap sort of thrill. In fact, she felt fluttery and light-headed and… what was the word… euphoric.

"Oh no…" she groaned quietly, drawing the duvet over her head in embarrassment.

'_I can't… I only just met him… I have so much to do for the kids yet… I don't have time for this_…'

Little did she know that a couple blocks away John had stopped walking in his tracks, hands still jammed in his pockets and gaze focused straight ahead. His eyes grew wide and his cheeks burned as he slowly sank down on a nearby bench and brought his hands up to hide his face.

'_All you did was talk to her… you were boring… you work too much… you can't…_'


	3. Early February 1940

Chapter Three: _Early February, 1940_

The school bell rang, causing the children to jump up and rush out the classroom door. Clara looked out the window as they spilled into the yard and started to play; it was going to be a rough twelve hours ahead. She had watch duty that night, meaning she had to stay with the kids as they camped out in the classroom. Most of them would be going to country homes soon enough but '_soon enough_' did not mean '_headed on the train that night_' and they still needed supervision. It was just a good thing that the spare classroom she had been given contained a small office as well, giving her bit of privacy for the long hours ahead.

Going over a stack of papers she needed to file in the office, Clara walked out into the hall only made it a few paces before colliding with a tall figure. She looked up and jumped back; it was John, his eyebrows knit in concern. His wet hair said he was freshly showered but his clothes smelled heavily of sweet wood and earthy ink.

"Are you okay, Clara?" he asked.

"Oh! John! I, uh, didn't see you there…" Clara stammered. She could feel the blood rushing to her face as some of the other teachers watched them in the corner of her eye.

"I could tell," John chuckled. He smirked as he brushed some hair back from her face, smoothing it out carefully. Something lurched in Clara's stomach, nervousness perhaps, and it took her a second to finally speak again.

"Shouldn't you be at work…?"

"We've got the rest of the day off and are on shortened hours tomorrow," John said. He brought his hand away from her face and let it fall to his side. "We're ahead of schedule and, well, if we keep on making things early then when we need the proper amount of weeks they won't budget that in to our time allowance. I was thinking, maybe, if you were available tonight…"

"I'm sorry, I can't," Clara said sadly. "It's my turn to stay with the children tonight. They sleep here, since they're not all placed yet."

"What do you do when they're asleep?"

Clara looked at John with a raised eyebrow—his tone seemed innocent enough. "I write letters soliciting shelter for them. Sometimes I read or mark coursework."

"Then can I come back just to sit…?" John asked, his voice low. His eyes temporarily flicked over towards the other teachers at the end of the hall, sure that they were watching his every move. "I'll keep quiet and draw and make you tea. You _do_ like tea, right?" He raised his eyebrows as he stressed the question, allowing Clara to pause and mull the offer over.

"I love tea, but it better be a proper cuppa," Clara warned. "Lights are off at eight-thirty and they're usually asleep by nine. I'll let you in the front door."

"Okay; see you then," John smiled. He hummed happily to himself as he walked through the hallway, not so much as taking notice of Clara's confused coworkers as he went. Clara simply shook her head and groaned—the kids had better fall asleep early that night.

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><p>Some hours later, Clara stood by the front door of the school with her arms folded and foot tapping impatiently. It was nearly nine o'clock, which meant John was nearly late. She was about head back inside to lock the door when a strange movement in the distance caught her attention. It was a lithe figure running up to the school with a messenger bag flung over its shoulder...no, wait, that really wasn't running. It was more like… well, she wasn't too terribly sure what that motion was, but it was faster than a walk despite being very upright. As the figure approached, she was finally able to make out that it was...John. Of course.<p>

"There you are," she frowned. "I can't stay out all night waiting for you."

"I know, I know… I just got stopped by my neighbor and she's so nosy she should be a spy in the Reich," John explained as Clara let him in the school. She locked the door back up and began to lead him up the stairs back to her classroom. "I brought tea, like you asked, in a flask, along with some old biscuits I hadn't opened yet and…"

"Shh…" Clara hushed John as they arrived at the classroom door. He quieted and followed silently as Clara crept back through the room.

Twenty or so children, about seven or eight years old, lay in various piles around the room's main space, currently cleared of desks and chairs. A couple desks and a blanket in the corner had been transformed into a fort, where tiny whispers could be heard. Clara led John to her small, windowless office, which was just large enough for her own desk and chair, along with a couple cupboards and a tattered three-person couch. She left the door open a crack and switched on her lamp.

"Well, it's not much, but at least we don't have to worry about Mrs. Hendricks lording over us," Clara whispered. John put down his bag and began to rummage through it. He pulled out a thermal flask of tea, along with a biscuit tin and a cloth bundle, which he put on the corner of the desk.

"I hope you like corned beef," John said, cracking a small smile. He looked at the papers on the desk and tilted his head. "I thought you only had twenty-five kids with you."

"Oh, you mean my list?" Clara asked, holding up a sheet of paper. On it was a handwritten record of names about forty long, all of which possessing an address in London and some with an additional Scottish address. John nodded in affirmation and allowed Clara to continue. "I get sent more children when I place some in homes. As long as they're in a city they're in danger, but here they're at least away from the capitol where the Nazis could easily flatten us in an attempt to destroy our government, commerce, and culture in one fell swoop. The children's stay here is only temporary anyways, so they don't mind much."

"Well then, I'll let you get to your work," John said. He took a small sketchbook, some pencils, and a metal container out of his bag and settled into the couch. Clara looked at him, slightly confused.

"You didn't want to sit up and talk…?"

"If you have important work to do, then don't let me stop you." John took a pair of spectacles out of the metal container and put them on, looking over them to smile at Clara. "Can't have the wee ones wake up and think Miss Oswald is being naughty with some granddad she picked up in a pub. Just being here is enough for me."

"Okay…" Clara said. "A perk of dating in the over-forty set?"

"Definitely a perk."

Chuckling, Clara took a stale biscuit from the tin and sat down to work on her letters. A few hours passed, along with a few trips to the teacher's lounge to make more tea, soothing a homesick child, a couple visits to the lavatory (with and without a sleepy-headed child in-tow), and the polishing off of John's sandwiches. It was past midnight, creeping closer to one, when John let out a large yawn.

"Oh, wow, it's past my bedtime," he groaned as he stood and tried to stretch the sleep from his limbs. After letting his limbs relax, John began to clean up his things. "Thank you for having me; it was different than sitting at home or in the pub."

"You can't go yet," Clara smirked, rolling her chair in front of the door. "Show me what you drew first, please. I want to see."

John's ears, already reddish from exhaustion, went full-on magenta as he hesitated, the hand with his sketchbook hovering over his bag. He passed Clara the small book, unable to look her in the eyes. The first few pages were filled with dockside scenes or sketches of coworkers as they built the large metal ships at the yard but they soon gave way to scribbles involving things around the office, her included.

Actually, there were more than a few sketches of her; writing letters, filing, getting things from the cupboards… even when the nightmare-plagued student had come in sniffling about wanting her gran. Some were merely suggestions of a figure caught in movement, yet others were meticulous and detailed. The detailed ones were mostly of her sitting in her chair, or standing in one place, the most precise drawing involving her lounging back in her chair with her teacup balanced between her hands and her mouth open as if talking. Clara closed the book and handed it back with a smile.

"They're nice," she said. "I see someone in there I recognize." The redness migrated to John's face as he jammed his sketchbook in his messenger bag.

"I'm sorry, it's just that when I…" John began. He stopped himself and looked at Clara, softly illuminated by the desk lamp and looking up at him with her coy, playful eyes. They hadn't even known one another for a month and words jammed in the back of his throat before they even reached his mouth. He wanted to admit to, to declare, to _confess_ to all the bits that were setting his chest alight and making his head light. "When I find a muse, I…" Clara stopped him by standing up and pulling his shoulder down so that she could arch on her toes and kiss him on the cheek.

"Don't worry," she said quietly. "They're nice."

John stared at her, it becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe as his throat dried out. Eventually, he forced himself to choke out an "Are you free on Sunday?"

"What time Sunday?"

"Just Sunday, all day. I want to show you Glasgow. Don't listen to what anyone else down south says—it's a very pretty city."

"Meet here then?"

"Seven o'clock; there's a bus not fifteen minutes later."

"Deal," Clara smiled. John finished packing up his things and kissed the back of Clara's hand. He left silently, awkwardly hopping over sleeping children as he made his way towards the door. With a wave and a grin of his own, he was gone.

"Miss Oswald…? Who was that…?" a tiny voice yawned. Clara looked and saw one of the girls shuffling up towards her, rubbing her eyes blearily.

"That was just a friend of mine," Clara said. "He wanted to keep me company, since I have to stay up to watch over you. Now go back to sleep."

"Oh… okay…" the girl nodded. She drug her feet along as she went back to her mat and curled up underneath her blanket.


	4. 11 February 1940

A/N: I'm sorry if I'm not replying to reviews very often, as I've been a bit busy. Please trust me when I say I appreciate every one of you even if I can't say it individually. In the meantime, here's a treat.

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><p><span>Chapter Four<span>: _11 February 1940_

Clara turned the corner and smiled as she saw John standing by the gate to the school, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in an effort to stay warm. He was looking up at the dark, cloudy sky with his teeth chattering in the morning cold. Careful not to catch his attention too early, Clara snuck up behind John and threw her arms around him in a playful hug. John jerked and recoiled in legitimate surprise.

"Morning!" Clara announced cheerily. John did not hug her back, instead trying to curl up with his back hunched and upper arms drawn in tightly against his sides. Clara let go and saw that he was grimacing uncomfortably. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," John lied. He straightened and smoothed out the front of his coat. "It's, well, you took me by surprise is all."

"You didn't look surprised," Clara said, arching her eyebrows.

"I haven't had anyone really hug me in a while." John looked at Clara and tried to gauge her reaction, which was so far confused.

"No one hugs you…? Not even mates or anything?"

"Actually, one of my coworkers, Collette, she's about your age and she hugged me her first day on the job but she hugged everyone her first day. Other than that… no, not really… not for a long time, anyways."

"Oh…" Clara said, her voice trailing off guiltily. "Is it okay though? _Can_ I hug you?"

"I'm not really a hugging person," John shrugged. He saw the concern on Clara's face and added "but if that's what you want… I can try." He held out his arm and Clara took it, pressing herself into John's side to combat the chill.

They walked like that to the bus stop and only separated when boarding one-by-one. The vehicle was mostly empty; early on a Sunday was not the prime time for heading into the city. This allowed them the whole back of the bus to themselves, which helped John's face go not quite as red when Clara pulled his arm around her and nuzzled once again into his side.

"Cold," she claimed, resting her head on his shoulder. He didn't complain, instead observing how she held his hand in place on her hip. It wasn't so much hugging as it was holding and that was fine. He could work his way up to hugging, he imagined. If he could kiss her hand and link arms then eventually a hug would be no problem.

Once in Glasgow proper, Clara began to turn and look out the window to take in her surroundings. Going by her wide eyes, it was clear to John that she had not actually gone in to Glasgow purely to see things. Her meticulous scanning of the landmarks made her look all the cuter. Cuter? Yes, she was cute. They got off the bus (or in Clara's case: bounced) and were greeted by a chilled breeze.

"So where are we going to go?" Clara wondered. She looked up at John, who was scanning their surroundings pensively.

"Not sure," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I was trying to come up with something this entire time, but I haven't been in Glasgow for much other than my books for a long time. There's a good chance that some of the stuff here's been closed because of the war, now that I think about it. I really should have thought this through better…"

"Well, when you were here a lot, where were you?" Clara asked. "No one makes a claim about Glasgow being lovely, let alone any city, without being in love with it themselves."

"I wouldn't say I'm in love with Glasgow now, but instead simmering a strong like for her," John chuckled. "I used to go to university here, once upon a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth and we humans fought them for dominance."

"Then let's start there," Clara said. "You at least remember where that is, right?"

"Of course, but we'll have to catch another bus," John smiled. He held out his elbow, which Clara happily took as they walked along the pavement.

The next bus ride was considerably shorter and soon John and Clara found themselves wandering part of the grounds of the University of Glasgow. It was quiet, as it was still early, leaving them two of the only people about.

"Where is everyone?" Clara asked. "Church?"

"Aha, no, probably still sleeping off whatever they did last night," John laughed. "Common uni student behavior… I thought you knew even if you never participated in such nights. Didn't you need to go to university to become a teacher?"

"I sat exams early and studied a lot," Clara frowned. "I didn't have much time to fritter about and learn about what my classmates were doing."

"Well you have time to fritter now, if I have anything to say about it," John said. Something caught his eye and he perked up. "Hey, the museum's still here… and it looks like it's open too. Want to go take a look?"

"Sure, why not," Clara shrugged. She allowed John to drag her up to the grey-brown stone building and usher her in. Soon they were wandering halls filled with paintings, every third one or so sending John to spiral off into a story from his school days.

The way his eyes lit up and his hands gestured as he regaled his adventures was something entirely new to her. Even during their second date, where they had sat up drinking tea and talking, he had not spoken this animatedly before. Now he was cracking jokes, awful jokes, though it was the little twitch the corner of his mouth made as he looked at her for a response that made her laugh. She watched him sketch a couple of the paintings, amazed that he was even allowed to do that in the first place— the way his grin turned clever and his whole body shifted into a pose of relaxed confidence as he processed the artwork in front of him was mesmerizing. He was where he most belonged and it made her smile just to see it all.

It had felt like only a few minutes, but before long they came out the other end of the corridors and found themselves in the main lobby again.

"Oh, already?" John asked, scratching his head. "I could have sworn there was more."

"I think there was as much as you remember, but we got a little too wrapped up," Clara chided, giggling. Her stomach gurgled loudly, silencing her laughter and causing her to go red in embarrassment.

"Skipped breakfast, did we?" John smirked as he checked his wristwatch. He double-checked the device and hissed. "Feck, how did we just spend five hours in here?"

"It was fun," Clara assured. They exited the building and found that the sun was high and warm, with many more people milling about and taking advantage of its presence. "How about lunch then, hmm?"

"That sounds like a plan," John agreed, just in time for his own stomach to squelch in a declaration of its own. Clara raised her eyebrows critically, to which he indignantly turned away from. "Come on, I know a pub just down the road with great pie."

Sure enough, the pie was some of the best Clara had eaten in a long time despite the fact the pub was dim and dingy and possessed strong smells she did not want to investigate the sources of. She and John laughed and giggled as they swapped stories about work and John reminisced about the varied drinking contests and philosophical debates he would find himself roped into in that very pub. They took their time eating and didn't notice how they spent multiple hours nibbling at pie and sipping their drinks until they stepped back outside and noticed the late-afternoon sun.

"I can't believe I told you I was going to show you Glasgow and all we've done so far is go to a museum and eat," John groaned as they walked down the pavement, headed nowhere in particular. "This must feel like a let-down. The day's almost over too… some date this turned out to be."

"It's not as bad as you make it out to be," Clara smiled. Something in a shop window they passed caught her eye and she stopped walking. "Oh, hang on John, I'll be right back." She disappeared into the shop, coming out a few minutes later clutching a small handful of tiny blue flowers.

"Shouldn't I be the one buying those for you?" John asked, confused. Clara laughed in response as they linked their arms back together.

"No; one of the other boarders in the house presses flowers, and she's never seen a harebell before on account of growing up in India. I just thought of it when we went by the shop—it's only a few stems."

"Thoughtful," John mused as they turned to walk into a park. A few minutes passed before an idea crossed his mind. "Clara?"

"Yes, John?"

"Mind if I… um… sketch you?"

"What, now?" Clara asked. John nodded his head silently. "Sure, I guess. Where did you want to…?"

"Right over here," John replied, taking Clara by the hand and leading her off the path. He sat her down at the base of a tree. "I'm sure your housemate won't mind her bluebells come a bit used." He concentrated as he gently took the flowers from Clara's hand and placed them behind her ear, weaving the stems into her hair and leaving the blossoms suspended by seemingly nothing. She rolled her eyes and chuckled at him as he knelt down in the grass a few feet away and took out his sketchbook.

A couple pose changes and many sketches later, the sun finally began to sink behind the buildings. Clara and John left the park giggling at one another and how they had managed to spend the time. They found a chip shop and bought fish and chips to-go as they began the long walk back to the Clydebank bus. It was dark by the time they finally boarded, sitting in the very back so as to quietly hold hands and let the sides of their legs touch without any spectators. The bus ride back seemed shorter than the bus ride to and eventually John and Clara found themselves meandering along through the dark town, light from the moon and the stars peeking through the thin, wispy clouds as their only guidance.

"I know you've been insisting today was nice, but I promise you that next time we're in Glasgow it's going to be extra-special," John sighed. They were walking down the pavement with his arm draped over her shoulders and hers around his waist.

"It was perfectly acceptable; I ought to thank you."

"For what? We didn't get to see nearly any of what we could have," John frowned, still convinced of his failure. Clara just tightened her hold on his waist in an one-armed hug.

"Thank you, John, for a lovely birthday," she said softly smiled as they turned the corner of a street. John glanced down at her and blinked in confusion.

"It's your _birthday_ too? You never told me that."

"Yeah, it is. Best birthday I've had in a while."

"You should have told me and maybe we could have gone somewhere a little nicer," John sulked. He sighed dejectedly and added, "So how old is the birthday girl?"

"Twenty-one."

John coughed in surprise. "O-Oh, that's right. You did say you weren't alive during the First World War. Well, you weren't alive during the fighting anyways. Twenty-one's the oldest you can really be, isn't it?"

"That it is," Clara said. She took her head off John's shoulder and looked at him. "When's your birthday?"

"November."

"What day?"

"Just… November. Here you are: back safe and sound."

Looking, Clara frowned to see that they had already reached the boarding house. John walked her up to the porch, staying on the bottom step as she continued up. Their arms and their hands lingered on one another as they slipped apart. By the time they were no longer touching, John spun on his heel to leave.

"See you another time then."

"Wait… John?"

Clara suddenly grabbed John's arm, stopping him from walking any further. He turned around and saw her on the porch with the flowers still behind her ear and light streaming out the window from behind her, the blackout curtain not yet drawn. With him still standing on the bottom step he was just short of being at eye-level with her.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked.

"…am I?"

"Oh, I think so." Clara smiled and leaned in towards John, bracing herself on his shoulders, and kissed him softly on the lips. She was slow and deliberate, internally chuckling at how he froze up in shock and couldn't even summon the muscles to respond.

She parted and leaned backwards, still smiling at his wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and made to head towards the door. His hand, however, grabbed the nape of her neck and gently guided her back. When she looked again at his eyes she saw they had softened and become hazy, accentuated by a warm smile. As they kissed she found his movements his movements were affectionate, though unpracticed, and they stood there enjoying the moment until they were interrupted by a disapproving throat clearance. The house matron was standing in the entryway, her arms folded and her foot tapping.

"I think it's past your bedtime, my dear," John smirked, glancing at the matron as Clara's eyes flit open. She blushed and walked back into the house, allowing her hand to trail behind and stay on his face as long as possible. Once she was in the house, the matron came over to the steps and stared down John.

"Out of all the men in this town, I never thought I'd have to worry about you," she hissed.

"Belinda, _you_ have nothing to worry about when it comes to me—you've never even been on my radar." He had his hands raised in mock defense, flashing his teeth out of the corner of his mouth. "There is a reason your missus status is only a courtesy, or should the young ladies not know that?"

"I will not have a boarding house of sin, John Smith," the matron snapped back as she went red in the face. "Do _not_ think you can coerce any of my boarders into shaming themselves now that you've suddenly discovered what your cock is for."

John burst into laughter, nearly falling into the porch steps. "Ach, Mother help me… I don't think I've ever heard you say a funnier thing in my entire life!"

"Then explain to me why you keep on seeing this girl, John. A _girl_. Is this another one of your rushes where you think you're too good to play by the rules everyone else has to follow? Act your age, like you've got a brain in that head of yours, for once in your life!"

Sighing wistfully, John leaned on the rail and looked up at the night sky. He could feel the cold glare pricking at his neck, but happily ignored it. "Don't worry, Belinda. Your house will always be one of virtue and respectability. I'm not making her do anything she doesn't want to, which should be respectable enough for any household. Besides, I don't want to screw this up—I've always known there would be a girl out there for me, but I never thought it would take this long to find her… or if I ever would."

"Well, then just know I've got my eye on you John," Belinda huffed. "You're an old man without even kids that need caring for. It's not proper."

"Shagging the nanny? Blimey, Belinda, I'm not your brother."

"…and keep it that way. Now shoo; I need to lock up now."

Without another word, John pushed himself off the railing and began to walk away. He smiled to the dark street as he went along the pavement—if it wasn't proper, then may he be called up to serve King and Country tomorrow.


	5. Late February 1940

A/N: Thanks, everyone, for the continued compliments and for keeping on reading. It always makes my day.

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><p><span>Chapter Five<span>:_ Late February 1940_

It all happened because he decided to be _early_.

Clara was instructing her students to go to bed when John walked in the open classroom door, his satchel sitting firmly on his shoulder and an accomplished grin spread across his face. The grin, however, subsided when he saw twenty curious sets of eyes, and one mortified set, stare at him.

"Kids, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Smith," Clara quickly explained. "_Normally_ he comes after you're asleep to help me with my paperwork."

"Oh, I've seen him before!" giggled one of the girls. "He was here a couple weeks ago!"

"That's right," Clara said nervously. "So if you kids see him there's nothing to worry about, alright?"

"Wow, you're old," one of the boys pointed out bluntly. John's ears went red.

"Michael!" Clara scolded. "That is rude!"

"…but it's true!" the little boy protested. Chuckling, John put his bag down on the front desk.

"Well, if I was really that old, could I still do this?" he asked. In one fluid motion John picked up the boy with one arm and flung him over his shoulder. Wiggling and writhing in an attempt to escape, the child remained firmly in his grasp as he chuckled. The other children, appalled by their comrade's capture, instantly swarmed John and brought him to his knees in a fit of laughter.

"Children! Children! Oh my God, children, _behave_!" Clara shouted, diving into the chaos. By the time she uncovered John from the pile of kids, he was lying spread-eagle on his back and snickering quietly to himself.

"Thanks for saving me," John smirked. He stood up and reached for his bag, only to stop mid-motion and put a hand under the collar of his jumper to touch his shoulder.

"They didn't hurt you, did they?" Clara asked. John shook his head.

"No; this is an old shirt and the seam on the shoulder popped, again. Do you have needle and thread I can borrow until I get this home?"

"Top right drawer of the desk," Clara said. She then turned to the children and hardened her voice. "First, what is it that Mr. Smith needs to hear?"

"Sorry," they said in unison. John smiled at the students, accepted the apology, and took his bag to disappear into the office.

"Alright kids, bedtime," Clara said. She clapped her hands and her charges began to shuffle back to their mats unhappily, a mix of grumbles and whispers. Once they were all down and tucked in, Clara watched them momentarily before slipping back into her office.

"Oh, good, can you please thread this for me? It doesn't seem to want to for my old eyes," John said. Clara looked over at him to see that his jumper had been discarded on the couch and his torn shirt now lay across his lap. He readjusted his spectacles with one hand as he held out the needle and thread with the other—his arms were well-defined and taut, though not overtly muscular, a fact his vest and braces did nothing to hide. Clara took and threaded the needle, handing it back.

"H-Here," she said, trying to stay calm. John took it and allowed his gaze to linger slightly before getting to work on his shirt.

'_Better be safe on this one_,' Clara thought. She quietly shut the office door the remainder of the way and hit the latch to lock it. "Do you like the radio? Any sort of music in particular?"

"Oh, anything's fine," John replied, not looking up from the shirt. Clara turned on the radio that sat atop her desk and tuned it to a station she knew to play music. It didn't matter what it was; she just needed the cover. She moved the device so it was closer to the door and turned back to John, who had just finished. "There, now that's better… for the time being at least. Thanks for the needle."

"You're welcome," Clara said, taking the needle from him and replacing it in the drawer. She turned back to see John inspecting his handiwork, satisfied. "I didn't know you could sew."

"Knew a textile major in school, not to mention the Army and career bachelorhood forcing me to keep up my skills," he shrugged as Clara quietly joined him on the couch. "It's nothing major, and if it is major the neighborhood wives are willing to help in exchange for the thread involved and being a sitter for a few hours. All I can say is thank goodness for them and their husbands for putting up with me."

Clara nodded, her attention elsewhere as she gingerly placed a hand on his bicep. He stared at her in a mixture of both curiosity and fear.

"What's the matter?"

"I didn't know you were hiding under those jumpers," she replied. John licked his lips and looked away to avoid her gaze.

"I'm not hiding," he blushed. "It's February. It's cold in February."

Clara rested her forehead on John's shoulder, kissing his arm lightly. How did she not think about it before? His job was rough, working him for oftentimes twelve hours per day and six days per week. It would be more surprising if he was a waifish rail underneath his lumpy jumpers and poorly-mended shirts. Crawling up to her knees, she turned his face towards her own and kissed him again. John twitched in surprise; this was not what he had thought they'd get around to, especially at this hour and in this place. He opened his mouth to politely suggest saving kissing for later, realizing too late it that it allowed Clara to run her tongue between his parted lips and past his teeth.

"Um… C-C-Clara…?" John stammered. "W-What about the k-k-kids…?"

"They usually don't bother me unless it's an emergency," Clara assured John quietly, gently easing him down onto the couch. He hesitated, glancing quickly at the door, and slowly relaxed into her touch. Cautiously, he swung his legs up and scrunched them into the tiny remaining bit of couch as she straddled his waist and resumed kissing him, starting at his mouth and trailing down his scratchy jaw and along the curve of his neck. John closed his eyes and accepted his position, melting into a quiet moan. He shakily brought his arms up and placed his hands on Clara's waist in an effort to seem like two decades of dormancy had not completely destroyed his instincts.

They kept at it, with Clara alternating between his lips and collarbone, until John's hips hitched involuntarily. Clara gasped in surprise; until then his participation had been limited to strained moans and trembling kisses. She looked down at John, whose face was dark red. He shakily took off his spectacles and put a hand behind her head to pull her close enough so that he could whisper in her ear.

"Would you mind telling me the directions to the staff loo?"

"Now…?" Clara scrunched her face in confusion. "Why _now_?"

"I need to, erm, adjust myself, please. Things are getting a wee tight."

"…oh," Clara said in realization. "Left corridor, right-hand side, between the children's." She slid off John as he groped for his jumper, which he put on over his vest and braces, without bothering with his shirt, and rushed out of the office. Clara straightened the hem of her skirt and looked out over the classroom—the children were all quiet and asleep. The large clock on the wall told her it was nearly ten… Christ, time had passed quicker than she had thought. She sat down at her desk and began to pull out her stationary in order to get at least a little bit of work done.

Two letters later John returned, adjusted enough to be able to leave a kiss on Clara's cheek as he closed the office door again. He shed his jumper and immediately went about putting his shirt back on, shrugging out of his braces and working the buttons quickly.

"Clara…"

"Hmm?"

"There are _children_ on the other side of that door."

"I know."

He tucked in his shirttails and replaced his braces.

"Children from good and decent homes…"

"I know."

John pulled his jumper back on and flopped back down onto the couch. He looked over at Clara, who was diligently writing, and sighed to himself, allowing a small smile. Quietly, he reached into his bag, pulled out his sketchbook and pencils, and began to draw.

"…though that was exciting," he admitted eventually. Clara chuckled to herself and continued writing.

"I know."


	6. March 1940

A/N: I've been waiting to post this chapter for a while, which is exciting. Enjoy.

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><p><span>Chapter Six<span>: _March 1940_

Clara walked quickly down the pavement, ignoring the occasional suspicious look she was getting from the neighbors. She tunneled her senses so that she could concentrate on nothing but the click of her heels and the basket on her arm. After letting herself into the gate at 12 Wissforn, she found the key that had been carefully hidden in the gate pillar and walked up to the door.

"Been spending a lot of time over at Johnny's lately, haven't you lass?" smirked a voice. Clara almost dropped the key in surprise; Eunice Rigby had a knack for appearing out of nowhere to ask invasive questions and now was definitely no different. She glanced over at the woman hanging over the garden wall, looking very much the hard-worn housewife with a cigarette dangling from her mouth and deep lines on her face despite not yet being forty.

"Yes I have, Mrs. Rigby," Clara replied stiffly. "I've spent enough time over here to know that the only things he tends to eat during the week are sandwiches and chips and things out of tins… and not just because of the war. I thought I'd surprise John with a proper dinner for once."

"It's not right, you know, the two of you," Eunice said. She coughed from her cigarette, halting and coarse, before continuing. "You could have so much more than him. If you wanted, there's better out there. Younger, your own sort, won't go bone-idle once the war's over…"

"What I _want_ is to just surprise someone who doesn't get the chance to cook with a nice supper," Clara said. She unlocked the door, replaced the key in the gate pillar, and went inside without giving Eunice the satisfaction of another word.

Once inside Clara went straight to work. First she straightened up in the kitchen, making it more suitable for cooking in. Parts of it showed a considerable lack of use within the past half-year and she refused to function with a dusty countertop. After that she took the meat and vegetables from her basket and began to cook, feeling smug over the fact she had been able to procure the food on such short-notice. She started to broil a small roast, careful to mind the fact she was cooking over a wood stove of all things, then peeled and boiled some potatoes, along with steaming carrots. The meal was not going to be large or fancy, but Clara felt lucky that she was able to get at least this together considering how tight rationing was making things.

After realizing she still had time left before John came home, Clara left the food in the oven to stay warm and sat down on the couch in the sitting room. She took some papers out of the bag she had tucked neatly away in the bottom of her basket—lists of potential homes to send children—and began to draft up a couple letters using the coffee table to write on. She was able to get about four letters done before she heard the lock to the front door slide open and John drag himself wearily into the house. He paused, sniffed the air loudly, and walked straight into the kitchen.

Smiling to herself, Clara stood and walked over to the kitchen door to watch as John marveled at the set table and the food keeping warm in the oven cinders. He turned around and stared at her leaning on the doorjamb, speechless.

"I thought you could do with a decent meal in you for once," she said. John sighed and walked over to Clara, holding her by the shoulders and, after hesitating, gave her a quick kiss.

"Thank you," he said. "How did you get a hold of this stuff without using both our cards? I didn't think meat was easy to come by in the middle of the week."

"It's not exactly the best cut, and don't ask otherwise," Clara chuckled. "I had some time, so I wanted to do something different with it."

"You put the children on the train today…?" John asked as he sat down. "I thought the children's home wasn't ready to take them until next week."

"I got a telegram this morning saying they were cleared to go, and that I'm getting a whole new set on Saturday," Clara explained. She took the roast out of the oven and set it on the table. "This means I have three whole days for just myself."

"…and you spend the first of them making my dinner…"

"I could be at the boarding house right now catching up on my reading, or at work writing letters, or doing any number of things. Don't push it," Clara laughed. She finished unloading the oven and sat down, letting John serve himself before taking her own food. "Now I'm wondering as to how often the neighborhood bachelor has even cooked for himself."

"Enough, but it's exhausting when I don't exactly have any time. I really appreciate this Clara, honest." John popped a forkful of roast in his mouth and had to stop himself from shivering in surprise. "I don't think I've tasted something this good since September."

"Only because you've been living off of tinned beans and chips," Clara replied, holding her hand in front of her mouth to shield the fact she had been in the middle of chewing carrots.

"No, I'm serious… this is really good. Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

"I'd help my mum out in the kitchen a lot. She was an excellent baker, and although I'm not at her level she made sure I knew my way around a recipe. Dad was pretty grateful for that; I think I did all the cooking for two straight years, since it took him a lot longer than me to learn."

"Oh…" John said quietly. He put down his fork and knife and looked across the table at Clara. "I'm sorry…"

She shook her head, stopping him. "No, don't be. Things happen, don't they? Besides, I think she'd like this."

"Pardon?" John asked. He watched Clara as her line of sight trailed off to her potatoes before snapping back into focus. "What would your mam have liked?"

"Oh, this surprise," she shrugged. "She was always making nice surprises for my dad and me for when we'd come home from work and school. I guess it was her way of making us feel special."

"That was very kind of her," John said. "Now you're the one being kind, breaking into my house and using my kitchen like it's yours. What would your mam say about that?" He smirked at Clara across the table, who coyly ate forkful of potatoes.

"It would have been her idea, probably. I'm sure she would have liked you."

"…you think so?" John tilted his head curiously.

"I know so."

They finished off the rest of the dinner making small talk, mostly chatter about what was going to happen with the newly-placed children. The only thing left afterwards was a bit of meat just large enough for a sandwich later. Clara laughed at that as she put the leftover in the icebox and started on the dishes. John tried to help, but was shooed away and forcibly sat back down at the table.

They did not talk as Clara washed dishes, leaving John to think quietly. This had been an extremely kind thing for Clara to do and he was unsure about what came next. He quickly glanced at her, blushing, _aching_, wondering if it was fine to feel the way he did. Well, of _course_ it was _fine_… everyone was allowed to feel light-headed and in a romantic daze if they wanted to be… but it had just been so long since he could have been considered in his prime that the idea should have been comical. He didn't even know if he was following dating protocol anymore, considering how much it could have changed since the last time he was with a woman. The rest of life up until then had seemed very make-up-as-you-go, and this felt no different.

What John knew though, knew absolutely and one-hundred-percent for certain, was that he was in love with Clara. The memory of romantic love felt distant to him, though when he was with her it rose up and thrashed about with a level of intensity he had forgotten existed. It was raw and consuming and made him extremely hesitant; the idea that Clara could possibly not love him back that way hurt enough to keep him second-guessing himself. She cared for him, obviously, but what if she was not in love as he was with her? They had already spent multiple nights kissing and caressing, though how many times when he was Clara's age did he get piss-drunk in his favorite pub only find himself a few hours later with a girl he barely knew halfway down his throat? John wouldn't blame Clara if she wanted nothing more than a companion, and he supposed the thought of holding her in his arms was enough for him. She could choose whether to push him away or descend on him and leave marks, marks that showed his co-workers he was still taken, marks that announced how serious he was in his commitment to her. He loved the marks she left, tiny and full of life, and if that was all the satisfaction he got, then so be it.

The sound of metal on tile broke John's concentration and he snapped his head towards the sink. Clara had dropped a knife and cursed under her breath as she bent down to pick the utensil up. She looked his way momentarily, averting her gaze as soon as their eyes locked on one another. John's eyes stayed on her, however, as she straightened and continued her work.

Maybe—he thought—he could give a hint to how he felt. It was his house though, so should he be the one to initiate anything? Yes; yes he could. John could lay the pack of cards on the table, but it was Clara's choice to pick up the deck and deal the hand to work with. He was the house, though she the advantage. He chewed his lower lip and decided.

_Yes_.

As Clara was beginning to finish up the last of the dishes, John stood up and walked over to stand behind her. He cautiously put his hands on her waist and, when she did not flinch at him, bent down to gently kiss her neck.

"Thank you… again," he murmured. John looked at Clara's hands—they were not moving as she held a pot partially submerged in water. He let go and slowly began to back away, only for her to turn around and abandon the pot with wide, glazed eyes.

"Don't…" was all Clara was able to get out before she pulled John down by the face and kissed him roughly, her hands still wet from dishwater. He stumbled back in surprise, her matching his movement to keep the kiss going. As soon as he got his bearings again, John wrapped an arm around her hips, lifting her up so they were level with one another. He leaned his back against the wall, with Clara taking it upon herself to straddle his hips and run her soap-covered fingers through his hair still slick with sweat.

They couldn't stay in the kitchen, as it was still too warm from cooking. The sitting room drapes were open and drawing them in daylight would cause suspicion… John broke the kiss and put Clara back down on the ground. They looked at one another in breathless confusion until he took her by the hand and led her towards the stairs, expression turning towards nervous and hopeful. Clara immediately understood, returning the look before grasping his hand as they both ran up the steps.

Later on John could not exactly remember crashing on his bed or trailing up and down Clara's body with gasping kisses and awkward hands or even being pushed onto his back as their chests pressed together and her grasp on him became tight. What he did remember was the feeling of his skin, rough here and loose there, against her soft limbs and how he could taste dinner all over again as she moaned into his mouth and how hard she accidentally bit his lower lip as he came, apparently having forgotten the sensation since the last time she went to bed with a man was well before the war. How long ago was that again? Six months? In some ways it had felt like six years.

The two slumped into one another's arms, curling up together underneath the bedding. They kissed while in a daze, murmuring teases and whispers across the pillow in an effort to make the other blush or giggle. Slowly though, the effect of John's long shift at the shipyard began to take its toll, as his lips became less responsive and his eyes relaxed into sleep. Clara reached up to run her hand over his face, tracing over his relaxed brow and scratchy jawline, before seeing the watch still sitting on her wrist. It was late, too late for comfort, and the panic jolted her awake. Rolling out of John's embrace, Clara sat up and began to rummage around for her hastily discarded clothes.

"No, please don't go," John whispered sleepily. He reached out and tried to grab her arm, but his body was too heavy to support itself.

"I have to go," Clara said gently. "If I'm not back before the boarding house closes, my things will be out on the lawn."

"Bring your things here… just please… stay a while longer."

"Good night, John. Tomorrow? At the pub?"

"I love you."

Clara sighed sadly and looked over her shoulder at John, who was so exhausted he seemed to have fallen asleep. For all Clara knew, that entire exchange could have been in his sleep. She finished dressing and leaned over the bed to kiss him on his brow, beads of oil and sweat kissing her back.

"I love you too."

* * *

><p>The following morning John woke with a crick in his shoulder from having been hyperextended over the course of the night. His arm was draped across the bed, stretched over rumpled linen that normally lay flat and crisp. A hazy smile spread across his lips as he blinked the sleep from his eyes—he was sore all over, but it was the sort of sore he had not felt in a very long time and didn't mind revisiting. He sat up and noticed a folded piece of paper on the vanity with his name on it, which he took and read.<p>

'_Sorry I had to leave, but you know Mrs. Hendricks. Six-thirty, pub first, then we can pick up where we left off. I love you_.'

"I love you too," John repeated, putting the note back on the vanity. He forced himself out of bed and around the cold room to pick up his clothes that had been discarded haphazardly the night before. Rotating the ache from his shoulder, he tossed his clothes into the middle of his bed; he was going to have to change the sheets already based on the fact he still smelled of shipyard. Well, smelling of metallic sweat and oily machinery hadn't been a problem the night before… but that was beside the point. It was all going to have to be balled up later and tossed in the wash before anything else happened later that night.

After a long, hot shower to relax his muscles, John resumed his normal morning routine. He dressed, skipped shaving for the day, packed a lunch using the leftover meat from Clara's roast (which he was able to fit into _two_ sandwiches), and had his own quick breakfast of toast and marmalade before walking out the door and setting off for work.

By the time John made it down to work, he noticed something rather odd about everyone he was running into: everyone was laughing and a bit more chipper than usual. He'd catch people looking his way and smirking, almost as if there was some big joke he was not in on. Were they playing a prank on him? No… pranks at this place were saved for birthdays. Did he miss something on the radio the night before? That was likely, considering how intensely he had been occupied. Did the Nazis surrender already? No, they couldn't have—no one would be at work if that was the case. Had there been a match last night? No, he would have known about that as well. He walked up to his locker, right next to where Verity was putting her jacket in hers.

"Rough night last night?" she deadpanned as John opened his locker. He glanced over at her—she was the exact opposite of everyone else with hard, judgmental eyes.

"What… erm… makes you say that…?" John asked nervously, putting his lunch away. "Everyone else just seems to be in a really good mood. Did I miss something?"

"Do they seem to be happy once they see you?" Verity asked.

"Yeah…?"

"Mmm. I see." She slammed her locker shut and left seething. Collette almost bumped into her as they crossed paths, making the younger woman jump.

"What's her problem?" she asked John, staring over her shoulder at Verity. She turned back to John, only to double-take when she saw him.

"Everyone's acting weird today, Collette," John frowned. "Verity's crosser than usual and the guys are almost _too_ happy. What's going on?"

"Umm… I have an idea, but, um, you've got a little something…" Collette said. She scratched her lip, just above the chin. John blinked at her.

"Already? For crying out loud…" He wiped his mouth and chin with the sleeve of his jumper. "Better?"

Sighing heavily, Collette dug into her pocket and produced a compact that she opened and held out for John to take. He gingerly held it in his hand and brought it up so he could see in the mirror—a large and unsightly bite-shaped bruise was covering his bottom lip. John blushed as he quickly snapped the compact shut and handed it back.

"Th-thanks," he said. "Th-that explains a lot."

"Was it the teacher lady from London?"

"She's actually from Blackpool, but yeah." He scratched the back of his head in nervousness. "Um… can I ask you a favor?"

"What?"

"Smack me in the face with a bucket while on shift; hide the bruise and maybe Verity will talk to me sometime this month."

"That'll just give you a black eye," Collette giggled, high and airy. John laughed too, though out of mortification instead, and leaned so that his forehead connected with the metal of the lockers.

It was going to be a rough day.


	7. Early April 1940

Chapter Seven: _Early April 1940_

John sighed as he peered into the opened side of the film projector, using his penlight to take a careful look around. Dust caked the inside of the device, making it so that he would definitely have to clean it out before he even thought about turning it on. He reached into his bag that was sitting opened on the floor and grabbed a dry paintbrush to begin sweeping out the inner mechanisms.

"What'cha doing?" asked a tiny voice. John looked out of the corner of his eyes to see two of Clara's students, a boy and a girl, standing near him, way too close for them being the only three in the room. It would have been best had they left, but considering he was currently in the back of the classroom they were temporarily calling _home_ he felt it would have been an unwise thing to shout them off.

"Making sure we don't die in a fire," he grumbled instead.

"Why would we catch on fire?" the little boy asked. John just kept on squinting at the little gears and sprockets as he dusted.

"Because film sometimes does that if you're not careful, especially the stock I'm going to put in here later," he explained. "Now don't you have some rope to jump or footballs to kick?"

"But you're much more interesting than football," the little girl said. She strained herself to stay in one place while still looking around John and into his bag to read the label on the film reel. "_Schneewittchen_…? What's that?"

"Don't worry; you'll like it," John said.

"Isn't that German? Are you a German?" the girl asked, seemingly ignoring his comment. John paused his cleaning and finally looked at the children, his face set in unamused self-restraint. He leaned closer to the kids, prompting them both to lean back nervously.

"You try getting your hands on a personal copy of one of the greatest works of cinematic art the English speaking world has _ever seen_ without it costing you an arm and a leg." He scowled sourly and leaned back, returning to his dusting. "I got it _from_ a German woman in Edinburgh who, for the record, had an Irish mam. Besides, that was a couple years ago at this point."

"Oh," the little boy mused. "So then Miss Oswald isn't dating a German spy. That's boring."

"Now what would make you say I'm dating your teacher?" John asked. He finished sweeping out the dust and put it away in his bag, only to bring out a smaller-tipped paintbrush and a container of grease to oil the gears.

"You're here almost every night Miss Oswald is, and we saw you and her kissing last night in her office," the boy said. "You're not married, so that means you're just her boyfriend, right?"

"I'm not her _boy_friend," John hissed. The kids had all looked very much in dreamland the previous night when he finally arrived at the school, which _might_ have led him and Clara to not shut the office door as firmly as they usually did. At least they had very strict guidelines for themselves while at the school and kissing was all the children had been able to see. "Do I look like a boy to you?"

"Then are you her manfriend? 'Cause you're not just her friend because just-friends don't sit really close and kiss," the girl replied. John stopped greasing a gear and looked at her.

"What's your name?"

"Barbara, and this is Jack."

"Well then Barbara, Jack, why don't you two run along so I can finish up before Miss Oswald brings the rest of your classmates back in? Get the last bits of sunlight on your face while you can."

"Do you need any help?" Jack asked. "We're good at helping, and Barbara even wants to be a teacher too." John went back to greasing.

"I'm sure you are both excellent helpers; now shoo."

The two kids stood there silently as John finished the final gear. He stood up from his chair and stretched before going back down into his bag and grabbing the film reel canister. Barbara and Jack stayed put.

"I told you to go outside," John frowned. "Where is Miss Oswald, anyways?"

"Outside," the children said in unison. They both watched as John threaded the film stock through the projector and aligned it along the sprockets. John tried to ignore them, but their collective gaze both annoyed and unnerved him.

"I'm starting to think that you two are here just to irritate me," John growled.

"Why do you like Miss Oswald?" Barbara asked. "The two of you don't seem a lot alike."

"I like her because…" John started before trailing off, thinking for a moment about how to fit his rationale into words appropriate for a stranger's child. "I like Miss Oswald because when I'm with her I feel very happy… she makes me feel like I can do anything. She is clever and smart and very loving and caring."

"The kissing part helps too, doesn't it?" Jack asked. John sighed in defeat.

"The kissing part doesn't hurt, no."

It was then that the rest of the students began to stream into the room, bringing with them a roar of excitement. Barbara and Jack finally joined their classmates by helping them clear their desks from the middle of the room and laying out the sleeping mats in front of the projector. Clara came in not long after, carrying a sheet and some clothes pegs borrowed from a supply cupboard.

"Thank you for helping me do this for the kids," Clara said as John took the sheet from her and began to fasten it to the blackboard. Since the room had not been used until her arrival, it had yet to be fitted with a projector screen.

"They need some arts and culture in their lives, and this is cheaper than the cinema," John shrugged. He and Clara then went into her office and began to remove the couch from it. They brought it to the back of the classroom, behind the students' mats and to the right of the projector. "I'm just glad that I remembered I even had this."

"…and in the right format too." Clara put down her end of the couch and watched John as he slid it deftly into place. "I didn't know they distributed feature-length films for use in school projectors."

"Here's the thing: they don't," he grinned, giving her a knowing wink. He then proceeded to wade through the sea of children and make his way towards the lights as Clara double-checked the drawn curtains. "Okay, okay, settle down you little pudding-brained monsters or no film for you tonight."

The class collectively gasped and the room fell silent as John reached the switch. He shut off the lights and took the penlight from his pocket, waving it around to make sure he did not step on any children as he hopped back over them. John flicked on the projector and waited for the credits to finish before joining Clara on the couch. He put his arm around her as she snuggled into his side, pulling the blanket draped over the back of the couch down and over them. Smoothing it out, he tucked the blanket behind her hip and under his leg in order to keep it in place.

"I don't know if I appreciate that this is an illegal copy," Clara whispered into John's ear as a storybook appeared on the makeshift screen and the children became entranced by the narration. John turned towards her and left a light kiss on her lips.

"I'm just frustrated that no one has been able to get a copy of Pinocchio over here," he murmured. "That, and I hear that there's supposed to be another animated film coming later in the year that's pure art mixed with orchestra music. Too bad we're not likely to see either until after the war. Wouldn't that be great though? Art to music, music to art… changing the game like this movie did."

"That sounds like the artist in you unable to contain himself," Clara smiled while rolling her eyes. She rested her head on John's shoulder and sighed contently as she watched the princess sing to birds fluttering around. Everything felt so calm it was almost as if she was not at work.

The children, all captivated by a movie many of them probably had not have seen when it was at the cinema, were calm and occupied and were going to go to sleep that night easier than on most. Clara and John would have to wait until a few more tiny heads found pillows before they got around to the activity she remembered best about going to the cinema, but at least it was not going to be a bad wait. She smiled to herself as John kissed the top of her head and ran his hand up and down her arm; Snow White was meeting her prince, which felt oddly satisfying to Clara. She then paused.

"John?"

"Yes, Clara?"

"I know I probably should have asked you before, but why do you have this film?" She leaned in so that her voice could just barely whisper over the clacking of the projector. "No kids, not even ones you mind on Wednesdays, and yet this film is _adorable_."

"I told you: this is _art_," John insisted. Clara pressed her face in John's chest and snickered.

"Don't give me that," came her muffled reply.

"No… it's true." He gently lifted her chin up so he could look at her, then brought his hand away so he could gesture at the screen. "What those blokes did is tell a story more complicated with moving pictures than anyone in the entire Empire _or_ the former colonies have before. These are all hand-drawn people and things, each deliberately penciled and inked and put to words and music. These aren't silent silhouettes… they're actual _things_… and it's beautiful."

Clara studied the glint in John's eye coming off the projector screen. There was excitement there, but there was also sadness deep underneath. It was curious, she thought, to be so genuinely in awe of something, yet to be so unhappy as well.

"You know," he continued, "I thought that, maybe, one day, after I retired, I might try to do something like this. Just myself, no one else; if a German woman can take three years making cutouts I think I can take four or five doing this. I don't know if I will now though."

"Why not?"

John bent his neck, hovering behind Clara's ear. "Art used to be the only thing that made me happy. Now, not so much." He kissed her lightly and began to leave a soft trail across her face until he found her nose. Playfully, she tried to nip at his in retaliation though eventually settled for pulling down his face as they leaned into one another's kiss.

The wicked stepmother cackled, only to be met with a chorus of "_eewww_" from the children. Clara opened her eyes to look at the screen but was instead met with a number of her students staring at her instead.

"The show is that way," she said, pointing towards the front of the room. Most of the kids turned back but one little boy shuffled his way over and looked up at them curiously. "What is it, Jack?"

"Miss, did you know your manfriend is a German spy?" the little boy asked, his voice very hushed. John threw his head back and groaned while Clara tried to not laugh.

"A German spy? Nonsense. Go back to the movie."

"He's a German spy; Barbara and I can tell, so be careful," Jack said. He crept up onto the couch so that he could whisper directly into his teacher's ear. "Dad says people have to put their money where their mouth is, which sounds like nonsense, but I think is has something to do with where people put their mouths. I wouldn't put your mouth on a spy if I was you, Miss Oswald."

"Jack, he's not a spy…"

"…but you're back here being like Mum and Dad! I don't think I could handle us having to be big brothers and sisters to a baby spy…"

Clara took a deep breath and held it, slowly exhaling before turning to the boy and hissing, "For the last time, go back to the movie."

"…but Miss…"

"Mr. Smith is not a Nazi spy, you are going to be placed in a home soon, and I am not having any babies—not any time soon anyways. Now go."

The boy grumbled and returned to his mat. Once he was down Clara's head snapped in the direction of John, who had gone beet-red.

"What did you tell them?" she hissed.

"N-nothing… they just saw I hadn't changed the original label yet, is all… I didn't think any of them _knew_ what German looked like…"

"Well once we are back in the office you are going to tell me everything you said to those kids, you hear me? Right down to where that thought about babies came from."

"I never said anything about—" John began, only to be cut off by Clara's hand covering his lips. He quieted and settled back down, allowing her to curl back up into his side and draw the blanket closer as Snow White was brought into the forest. Babies had been the last thing on his mind; how daft were these children? Him and babies… Clara… they had just been _kissing_…

Never did he have to sit through a film that made him so uneasy before this.


	8. Mid-April 1940

A/N: As this is a convention weekend for me, if you leave a review with important questions that need answering please be patient as I have spotty internet access.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Eight<span>: _Mid-April 1940_

It was early in the evening as John lay sprawled in his bed, head resting comfortably on Clara's chest. He kept his eyes closed and smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair lazily, looking up at the ceiling. Any heat they generated had long dissipated, which made the blanket he had pulled up over them all the more necessary.

"John?" Clara spoke to the room. He murmured into her breast, unintelligible though confirming he was listening. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"The First World War… the Great War… did you ever, you know, see an end to it?"

John opened his eyes and lifted himself onto his elbows. "What do you mean?"

"When you were in the battlefield, did you ever have a feeling how long the war was going to last?"

"No. Never." John slid up to join Clara by the pillows, dragging the blanket with him. He made sure she was covered and pulled back some hair from her face. "We never saw an end. Some of us still haven't seen the end—lots of men lost themselves on the battlefield. _I_ wasn't even that sure how much of myself was still left scattered all over the mainland for a long time." He paused, studying her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just… I hear about the war from the older teachers at school, the ones old enough to remember their fathers and brothers going off to volunteer—Mr. Greene even served—and so many of them talk of the war now as if it's something that will be over by Christmas…"

"…and you don't see it, can you?"

"No, I can't," Clara sighed. "I want to, I really do. I want to see the end of the war and say that yes we can flatten the Reich before they even think about bombing the capitol and setting foot on British soil, but at the same time… I don't know John. I can't see it."

"Don't listen to them," John said. He wrapped an arm around Clara's waist and pulled her close, tucking the top of her head beneath his chin. "Do you want to know where Alistair Greene served?"

"Where…?"

"In an office in Kent. He talks as if he saw action, but he is just the largest coward there is… taking credit for other people's service instead of admitting he was unable to go to the front."

"…but his leg…"

"…got mangled during training—I saw. It was a nasty fall that should have killed him, yeah, I won't deny that, but most people around here know he's just lying through his teeth when he says he got hit during the Somme. I wouldn't be so critical if he simply _admitted_ he spent his service in an office in Kent, but he insists that he's been all over the Continent fighting when his fight was nowhere near where the rest of us were. His leg was so screwed up that not even a pals battalion would take him."

"You mean, those units formed by men from one area or profession?"

"Yeah. I was never in one, but those were fairly popular for a time. Greene never saw a day of action in his life, and neither did any of those dried up old bats you work with. They don't know what it's like; too hung up on the 'Great' part of something that was not all that great in the slightest. They think they understand, and most of them mean well, but they can't really grasp that sense of futility. You have a clue, I think, and that's what counts."

Clara rubbed her forehead into John's chest and grumbled. "They ask me what I plan on doing after the war is over. Almost weekly I have to say I have no idea and they give me lectures about how I need to get my life together and plan ahead and think seriously about finding a stable man with a steady job that I can make a home with."

"I'm stable," he gasped in sarcastic defense. "Am I not good enough for Cockerel Greene and his Gossip Hens?"

"I know what they say is rubbish, but every lecture holds a warning about how you're not the sort of man I should be looking for."

"…because they think they can see into the future." He smirked, causing Clara to exhale distantly.

"You're the man I want right now, John." She shifted until she was looking down into his eyes, sitting on his waist and propping her elbows on his shoulders. "We don't have the luxury of living for the future. I can't see the end of the war like other people claim to, and that's just fine. Right now I'm happy… _we're_ happy… and that's what matters."

"I guess it is, isn't it?" John smiled. He reached back down underneath the blanket and ran his hands over her hips as she leaned down to kiss his mouth. After a bit Clara began to trail off, moving to his chin and down his throat and towards his collarbone. He moaned slightly before letting loose a throaty rumble in his chest. "Clara?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's say you could see the end of the war. Say tomorrow the King comes on the radio and announces that the Nazis surrendered? What would you do?"

Clara paused her work, laying down on John's chest as she thought. "I… I guess I'd work on sending the kids back to London."

"Would you… go back?"

"I suppose so," Clara said. "I have to make sure the kids all get back home safe first, but then I'd have to go. There's not many jobs I can do in Clydebank, so unless there's an opening in the school I won't have a job, and without a job I can't pay rent."

"I see," John frowned. He ran a hand up her spine, eventually reaching her hair which he began to comb with his fingers. "Would you visit?"

"Of course I would," Clara chuckled. She sat up and gave John a coy grin, sliding her hands over his chest. "But you know… that's only if the King announces _tomorrow_ that the war is done. I might change my mind by Wednesday."

"Then let me work on persuading you," John smirked, pulling Clara back down and rolling on top of her. She giggled as he nuzzled his shadowy beard into her neck and began to work his hands along the various sweet spots he was beginning to memorize and grow confident with.

* * *

><p>Later that evening John lay on his back as Clara searched the bedroom for various articles of clothing, keeping his eyes closed while listening to her movements. His whole body was still warm and sticky but also weary from both his long shift catching up to him and for indulging his girlfriend (and himself) twice. But he was glad for his job being the reason he even went into the pub the night he did at the time he did that had allowed him to even meet her, making him more than willing to endure the soreness.<p>

"John? Where's my knickers?" John opened his eyes and looked at Clara—she looked fully-dressed already.

"Hmm…?"

"Are they in the bedsheets? I can't keep on losing my knickers in your bedroom; when it comes time for laundry someone's going to notice my distinct _lack_ of them."

"Notice and be jealous, I bet," John chuckled. He sat up and looked around his immediate vicinity—the knickers were on the floor between the bed and the vanity. After picking them up he passed them to Clara, who immediately slid them on underneath her skirt and sat down on the bed to put on her garters and stockings.

"Don't lie," she said. "No one's jealous of me. They worry I'm throwing my future away for you."

"I thought we didn't have a future, not until there's a ceasefire." John slid across the bed and carefully brushed back Clara's hair so he could press kisses on the back of her exposed neck. Clara continued with her stockings, allowing the contact that possessed all the love from earlier in the night yet none of the energy.

"We don't, but that doesn't mean there's no risk involved. I thought you knew that."

"I never said anything about risk." Slowly, the kisses began to move towards the side of Clara's neck and at the base of her jaw. "When the war is over, and we decide to go our separate ways, we are going to risk a lot."

"I meant there's risk now. John… you know they can still transfer me, right?"

He stopped kissing her and frowned. "Transfer you? To where? You just got here"

"Somewhere in York, or near Aberdeen, or somewhere else that isn't here," Clara said. "Wherever they need me to be a stop for the children is where I agreed to go, and who knows how long that will be here. I never had much as far as future plans anyways, which is why I signed up to leave London in the first place. I have risks _now_—every day I'm here I fit in less and less and that only makes it more difficult for the kids I already have here when it comes to finding them places to stay and getting help from the community with taking care of them. Even in the long term… I don't know how many kids I'm going to get and for how much longer. I could be doing this for years, until there's not a single child in London, putting everything on hold for them." John rested his chin on her shoulder.

"What were your plans before?"

Clara chewed her bottom lip in thought. "I was always going to be a teacher, so I guess if there had been no war I'd still be in London… teaching… being there for the kids. Eventually I knew I'd find a husband and settle down and have a family, but that sort of peace just isn't within my grasp right now." She glanced over at him, their faces nearly close enough to touch. "What did you plan on?"

"Illustrating my books," he said. John curved his arm around Clara's waist, hugging her gently from behind. "If I met someone, then I met someone. If not, there are schools to endow my things to. At this point, if not you, I do have a favorite coworker I could leave my film reels and first editions…"

"Collette's your favorite if only because she doesn't have a mean bone in her body," Clara smirked. She shook her head, halfway to bemused. "Everyone else seems quick to mention the couple million maiden aunts in your generation."

"Many of whom were either too desperate for their own good or turned to their fellow maidens for comfort, let me assure you," he muttered. "Don't think that because there was a surplus of women after the war I was swimming in them. How would you feel if your intended left and never came back, but another man tried to slide into his place? I'd rather die alone than do that to some poor wreck."

"Glad to know I'm not a wreck." Clara turned her head and softly bumped her forehead into John's. "I don't understand why they say you're bad for me."

"…because they think I'm not normal. Didn't you have an old man living by himself in an empty old house in your neighborhood growing up?"

"Mr. Blake," she answered, "but he was mean and nasty and hated everyone. You're too kind to be Mr. Blake."

"No, I am definitely Mr. Blake."

"Mr. Blake never had a girlfriend."

"That's because Mr. Blake never found her, or she died, or she married another man. I was the Mr. Blake of Wissforn Road, or at least I was becoming him, because people think solitude means hatred." John removed his arm from Clara's waist and laid back down. "I stopped being social long ago. The best I do these days is catch-up over the pint I originally went into the pub for—no one had luck shoving me off on their sisters, so I'm no longer worth anyone's time."

Clara paused and placed her hand on John's chest. "You're worth my time," she insisted softly. John took her hand in his as she leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips, noticing he was starting to drift off. "Long-term or short… I think you're worth it."

"Thanks," he murmured, his eyes hazy. "Got your key?"

"Yeah; I'll lock up. Dinner tomorrow? Your turn to cook."

"You mean my turn to heat up a tin of beans."

"See you then, John. I love you."

"I love you too."

The words rumbled out of John's throat, low and soft, as he slipped further towards sleep. Drawing up the duvet so that it covered him properly, Clara left a kiss on his forehead before she stood and made her way towards the door. Even if it was just for the present, both of them felt _alive_, and nothing could change that.


	9. 16 April 1940

A/N: I would just like to thank everyone for their continued support. I'm also a little miffed at Clara's official birthday, but at least this is an AU to begin with so canon is sehr flexible. Nehs gusta.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Nine<span>: _16 April 1940_

Collette was _angry_.

Her older two coworkers were at a loss when the chipper and down-right jovial young woman came sulking into work. Neither had ever seen her so much as sniffle at a jammed finger, yet now she was enveloped in a cloud of gloom that did not seem to want to go away. She had already come into work the day before cranky, which seemed like simply a rare off day, yet that now appeared to not be the case as she nursed Day Two of her foul mood. It had taken over her movements, making her sluggish and irritable, until Verity finally snapped sometime mid-morning.

"Okay, what's going on?" she hissed. "You're not like this, Collette. What's bothering you?"

Collette leaned into her rivet gun with a bit more force than necessary as she worked on a cabin wall before grumbling "My dad."

"What's your dad done? Are you okay?" John asked. Collette shrugged, ignoring the look of concern that had spread across his face.

"We had a row the other night, is all. He said I should quit."

"Quit what? Working here?" Verity blinked. She and John looked at one another in confusion.

"Yeah. He says I'm not making anything of myself here. He says I'm better than this, and if it were up to him he'd send me to Canada to live with his sister."

"What's wrong with living with your auntie?" John wondered. Collette put down the rivet gun and rummaged for her water flask.

"M' auntie wouldn't let me do anything—ancient nuns had more freedom than I would there. All of Canada and I doubt I'd be allowed off the front stoop. I'd be set up with someone and that would be it."

"Well now, I'm sure your auntie's not that bad…" Verity reasoned.

"You never met her." Collette folded her arms and scowled, though it came off as more of a pout than anything. "I just want to live, you know? I want the things that girls are supposed to want: a husband and a home and kids, but I want to find them on my terms. Mucking around, worrying about the consequences of this and that… I don't want to take up oil painting and lock myself away until I marry a man that was met for me. I'm fine, even if my dad is worried."

"Well if he wants you to take up painting, I still have some stuff lying around," John offered with a smirk. Collette genuinely smiled, though shook her head.

"I'd rather live in the moment than not at all," she said. "To me, building something useful like this ship… now that's living, even if I can't sign all the panels like I would a painting. I don't care what my dad thinks. It's just a good thing my dad and I work for different companies or he'd be all over my case while on shift."

"Is that so?" John chuckled. He hammered a rivet down and something Clara had said the night before popped into the forefront of his thoughts.

_We don't have the luxury of living for the future_.

John paused before moving on to the next rivet. He had rarely thought about the future the previous who-knew-how-many years, yet as of late he had been thinking about it with alarming frequency. It was not as though he had _wanted_ to think about it—the future in wartime was always uncertain—yet it kept on being brought to his attention. This job, his new girlfriend, the renewed lift in his step… they all reminded him in some way that there was going to be life after the newsreels dropped their somber, yet optimistic, news from the front lines. There was going to be a day when Africa would be won and someone will have surrendered on the European continent and leaders deposed and whatnot. He wished the ship they were currently laying down would be part of the conquering fleet, though there was also a nagging feeling in his gut telling him that it was still early , and that wars weren't often won overnight.

Wars took time, yes. They took weeks, months, and even whole _years_ out of people's lives. As John returned to flattening the rivet caps, he thought about Clara. She was currently younger than he had been when he was thrown into a woolen uniform and dumped into a mud-filled trench. Sure she wasn't going off to the front lines, but she knew what was out there. She might not have back when they first met, as her view had been as skewed as anyone's, yet as they got to know one another he found underneath her surface a soul already worn and tried and incredibly empathetic to a soldier's trials. He knew that if she too was dressed up in the right kit and sent to languish day in and day out for years on-end, she would at least know what she was in for. That gave her an advantage, a subtle one, yet it made all the difference.

Nothing was in their future, truth be told—few things were barely in their lives _now_. They were addicted to one another, spending restless nights up together in their refusal to give up the other, which turned into "emergency watches" according to Clara's landlady and entire shifts were Verity refused to speak to him on grounds of common decency. They had become very close rather quickly (John was fully ready to admit), and their spontaneity was mostly over whether or not they would stay up cuddling and talking and sketching and working, or if they would take up residence in his bedroom, where they would swear on one another's names and whisper oaths of devotion in the afterglow. Even without the looming threats of war and transfers, the two of them were so very different that it was difficult to see a future beyond the weekend anyways.

Yes, they were very different. He was tall and lanky and awkward in his own skin, working a job he tried his entire life to avoid. She was tiny and take-charge and insistently confident in her abilities, tirelessly throwing herself into her duty to the children she helped usher from London. They should have clashed; there was nothing that had driven them together other than a beer and a brass band and a bloody war that could just as easily drive them apart. Lots of people met thanks to pints in a pub to end up dancing the night away. Hell, even more people met due to wars. So really… why them? With each rivet he concentrated harder and by the time the lunch whistle blew he had made up his mind.

He had to know.

As the yard became a scramble of people rushing to go home or get their packed lunches, John weaved in and out of the crowd until he found the foreman. "Hey! Will!"

"Oh, what's going on John?"

"I have to ask you a favor, mate to mate," John said, lowering his voice so that only Will could hear. "I need to take half the day off."

"What, _now_?" Will marveled. "This isn't like you, John. What's the matter?"

"I need to go talk to my girl, and I need to do so right now. If you let me go I am going to come into work tomorrow morning either the happiest I've ever been or the most hung over. Please, be a pal." He raised his eyebrows, pleading.

Will looked at John and groaned. "Alright, fine. Go, and don't come back tomorrow either. No matter what you're not going to be in any shape to do anything until Thursday, so just enjoy it." John clapped his hands on Will's shoulders, ecstatic.

"Thank you!"

"This is just because I've known you forever, alright? Now don't get too carried away; you're about twenty-five years late on this."

"Noted."

* * *

><p>Clara sat at her desk, marking the spelling papers her students had just turned in. The children were now reading to themselves from their primers. Everything was very quiet, making the knock at the door all the louder.<p>

"Come in," Clara said, not looking up from the test she was marking. She heard the door open and close, followed by a pair of heavy boots walking over towards the desk. The children began to whisper, their tones hushed and excited and confused, signaling it was not the normally-booted caretaker. She glanced up and froze as she saw John approaching, coming to a stop behind the desk so he nearly towered over her. He must have come straight off a shift, as he still wore his coveralls (the top half tied around his waist) and was absolutely filthy.

"Clara, can I speak with you for a moment?" John asked. He was breathless, as if he had run all the way there, betraying the hopeful grin plastered across his face.

"Is everything okay? Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Everything's wonderful. I just…" John leaned down and whispered quietly into her ear. "I just wanted to ask if you fancy getting married later today."

Clara's eyes went wide as she felt blood rush to her face. She glanced over at her kids quickly—some had gone back to reading but most were still staring at them—and then back at John. "Just like that?" she whispered quickly. "You're in no state to get married."

"I'm going to go home, shower, put on my best jumper, grab Mam and Dad's rings, and if we leave right after school we can catch the next bus into Glasgow and register there before the offices close."

She leaned back in her chair and brought a hand up to her mouth, trying to shield her shock from the students. "Oh God, you mean it…"

John crouched down further, bending on a knee and taking Clara's other hand in his behind the desk. "I know you said you'd rather wait until after the war to do something for the future, but what if there isn't an after the war for us? What if bombers come tonight and mistake my street for the river? What if a pulley accidentally snaps and I get crushed by sheet metal? What if they raise the National Service age and call me to the battlefield again? I want to go on to the next life knowing I took a chance for myself at least once in this one."

Clara bit her lip and paused, breath shallow, her eyes glassy. She inhaled deeply before whispering a raspy "Be there at the front door promptly or I never want to see you again." John grinned and gave her a quick kiss on the lips before hopping to his feet and walking out the door.

"Miss Oswald, isn't that your manfriend? What did he want?" one of the children asked, holding up a hand. Clara shook her head and cleared her throat.

"That is none of your business. Now if you excuse me, your tests are marked. Barbara, can you please pass these back for me? I need to ask Miss Macintyre something."

* * *

><p>Sure enough, John was waiting there at the gate to the school when Clara got off work. He had showered and indeed found his best jumper to wear and even had dug out cologne from some dark recess of his wardrobe. His hair was still wet and the lopsided grin from earlier had yet to fade. He greeted Clara with nothing more than a kiss before walking off towards the bus stop arm-in-arm. Once on the bus they sat down together on a bench seat towards the back, quietly holding hands and staring off into nothingness.<p>

The ride wasn't a long one, but as they got closer and closer to their stop John began to shake. What was he doing? Skipping work? Running off to get married? Marrying a young girl who he should be respectful towards while trying to find a suitable match out of his younger coworkers? Really, she was just a girl, not that long an adult, and he had no right. She was the same age as Will's daughter, who was married and expecting her second child with a husband only a few years her elder. His playmates from primary school were all becoming granddads from their children Clara's age. What was _wrong_ with him?

Sensing that John was becoming nervous, Clara lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it gently. She then held his hand, completely enveloped by both of her own, in her lap and rested her head on his shoulder. John's breathing slowed as his nerves faded away; that's right… she accepted. Clara would have never accepted his proposal if she did not want to. She was there with him because she loved him, and that made John feel all the better.

Once they were down at the registrar everything seemed to happen as if in a daze. The only thing that wasn't was the brief argument they had over Clara's surname, which he insisted she keep and she insisted she change. It wasn't even much of an argument, but more volleys of insistence thrown back and forth left temporarily undecided that finally ended when Clara signed her name at the bottom with the surname Smith. She didn't care that she was going to carry a name that wasn't her own for decades after he was gone—one unit did not operate under two names, she reasoned, and she'd rather it be his.

By the time the offices were closed John and Clara were wearing his parents' wedding bands, now _their_ wedding bands, and the world had not yet seemed to catch up to them. They went out to a nice dinner, paid for by a handful of John's savings that had not gone to the paperwork fee. The rest of the evening was spent walking around, stumbling across the park they had visited in February. Clara insisted John sketch her again, particularly after he found flowers near the base of a tree and weaved them in her hair. They rode the late bus back while twitching and grinning and barely containing their excitement for their first night together as husband and wife.

The next morning a very naked John woke up with Clara curled on top of him as she cried into his chest. She was in trouble, she knew she was. She had gone and gotten married without even telling her father she had been dating. Now there would be no church ceremony, she couldn't wear her mother's dress, there would be no reception, and her father couldn't give her away at the altar. The details she had always kept in the back of her mind, details that did not hinge on who she married and when, were now permanent fantasy. John wrapped his arms around her bare frame and tried to comfort her with soft kisses and whispered declarations of love. Neither of their thoughts of the future would come true now, he reminded her, as he had spent the past fifteen years wondering how long he would sit rotting after dying alone in his grandparents' house. They had lived for the moment and in such troubled times; no one should blame them for that… most of all themselves.


	10. The Next Day

A/N: Glad to see people liked the last chapter. All the commentary has been fun to read.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Ten<span>: _The Next Day_

Belinda Hendricks was _sure_ she was imagining the entire thing.

"You _what_…?" she asked, baffled. John Smith—quirky and strange and a good match for no one—stood there in her sitting room and shrugged almost guiltily.

"I married her, Belinda. What else can I say?"

"What else can you say?! John, you married a _child_."

"No, I married a _woman_. It would be different if she were one of the local lasses who I've watched grow up, but Clara is not one of them. I've only known her as a woman and nothing else."

"Do you have _any_ shame?"

"When it comes to my wife? No. Come on Belinda, I'd think you'd be happy that you get the chance to collect double rent on a room for half a month."

"Why…? I don't understand John…" she hissed, exasperated. "Out of _all_ the women who you could have courted after coming home from war, you had to wait until the next one to actually get around to marriage. There's a long list of men I could have expected this behavior from, who were likely to marry and remarry in the same age range despite their own, and half a year ago you weren't even on it. This is only going to give you a bad reputation as a filthy pervert."

"At least I will have a reputation knowing I have a loving wife to go home to at the end of the day." He let a grin creep across his face, satisfied yet sharply acidic. "What do you have, Belinda? You and I never hit it off, so what other options did you end up with? Boarders? Young, nubile boarders? That sounds a lot more suspicious if you ask me."

Just as Belinda was about to shout back with all the rage and fury she could muster, Clara Oswald, now Clara Smith, came down the stairs with her suitcases packed. She came up to the older woman and gave her a hug.

"Thank you, for everything," she said. "Please, don't be a stranger. You're welcome over anytime."

"W-why thank you, Clara," Belinda stammered, taken aback at her former boarder's genuine offer. She tried to not be rigid while returning the hug. "The same goes for you."

"I'm glad. Ready, John?" Clara said. The newlyweds then bickered shortly over who was going to carry the suitcases (they ended up splitting), and they walked out. Belinda watched them make their way down the pavement and out of sight.

She didn't see it lasting longer than the war.

* * *

><p>Clara could feel the stares of the neighbors as she and John walked down Wissforn Road with their arms linked and a suitcase each.<p>

She tried to ignore it, she really did. Clara was not ashamed of her choice, nor would she be pressured into being ashamed. She would be living here for a long time yet, possibly forever if that was in their future, and she was not about to start it off in hiding. Her back stiffened, however, as she felt the unseen eyes of mothers-at-home and the elderly boring progressively into her, just as they did when they had left to gather her things earlier. Now, as they were returning, it was clear that it was something much more complicated than simply oversleeping after yet another night of lustful sin. The looks were just as judging, but of a different sort from before. It all put Clara on-edge.

"I thought cold feet usually happened before the wedding," John chuckled, leaning down and lowering his voice so that only she heard. "Relax. They're just curious, is all. This isn't exactly something any of them expected to see."

"A wife moving in with her husband?"

"_My_ wife, no."

Clara rested her head on John's shoulder as they continued to walk along. Yes, she was now a wife… something she wasn't that time yesterday. She was married to the man people tried to set up with old maids and widows, looking very suspect in the process.

At least, she knew, that they couldn't claim it was money she was after, or that marriage was the only option to escape an abusive home life, or that she was, Heaven forbid, pregnant. They had no choice but to consider the fact that they loved each other and were willing to stick it out and live their lives together, in the open and for all to see. She unhooked her arm from John's as they approached the gate to his—no, _their_—house and took the other suitcase while he fumbled with his keys.

"Did your landlady finally have enough of your antics?" snorted Mrs. Rigby as she leaned over the low garden wall from her chair. She clutched her paperback firmly, marking her place with her index finger. "You better watch yourself, John, or you're going to have to marry the poor girl before too long."

"Good thing I took care of that yesterday then," John smirked. Mrs. Rigby raised her eyebrows in confusion, her expression changing to shock as she watched John wave sarcastically at her with his left hand… a hand that now wore a golden wedding band. She dropped her book in the grass and gawked.

"How… what…?"

"Looks like we'll be seeing a lot more of one another, Mrs. Rigby! Talk to you later," Clara smiled. She walked in the door, which John was holding open for her, and almost threw her suitcases down in the foyer in irritation.

"Oh, come on now…" John sighed as he closed the door behind them. "You have to admit, her face was priceless."

"Yes, it was, but this is going to get very old very quickly if this keeps up."

John rolled his eyes and placed his hands on Clara's waist, leaning down to rest his chin atop her head. "They'll have their fun and before long someone elsewhere is going to distract them with a surprise baby or a new car too expensive for the neighborhood and we'll be old news. I think it's sort of exciting being scandalous for once."

"At least now everyone will know we're married by lunchtime and we won't need to tell anyone," Clara frowned. John just nipped at her ear and grinned devilishly.

"I bet we can get in another go before half the neighborhood knows," he murmured. "Actually, let's be _knackered_ by the time my coworkers get home for supper."

Clara scoffed in feigned upset. "What? Don't think I can hold out for longer than that? You don't even know the _meaning_ of knackered."

"Teach me?" John asked, his brow raised in jest. Clara brought a hand up to his face and guided him down to her, leaning into a kiss.

"Lesson One: bring your wife to bed," she whispered huskily. John bent down further and easily lifted her into the air. He kissed her again as he carefully made his way towards and up the stairs—didn't want to fail the first lesson, after all.

* * *

><p>"Miss Oswald, where were you yesterday?"<p>

Clara stopped writing on the chalkboard and turned around to face her class. Sure enough, she saw the little hand that had shot up in the back of the room. The school day had only started ten minutes prior and it was already shaping up to be awkward.

"That is none of your business Michael, and please call me 'Mrs. Smith' from now on."

"…but you're not married," the little boy protested.

"Oh, my husband would beg to differ," Clara smiled.

"If you're married, then why do you have a manfriend?" one of the other students asked, using the term they had coined for Mr. Smith. Clara looked away, holding back a snicker, before turning back to the chalk board.

"No way! You got married yesterday?! To your manfriend?!" another student gasped. Clara smiled at the chalkboard and kept on writing. Her lack of argument sent the class into an uproar. She finished writing her sentence and turned back around to face the class, keeping her face stern.

"I will only take questions from good children who do their coursework and don't bother the teacher with gossip in the middle of class," she said, raising her voice above the children's. The class settled down and quietly raised their hands. "Yes…?"

"Does this mean you're not going to come stay with us at night anymore?"

"I will still stay with you at night and teach during the day; my husband doesn't want me to turn back on my obligations to you children just because I am now married."

"Are you gonna live here forever now?"

"Forever is a long time, but, I can see myself living in Clydebank for more than a few years yet."

"Isn't he old?"

"Only on his birth record." Clara sighed; she better cut this off soon, before things got out of hand. "Okay, one more question and then work."

"Are you going to have a baby?"

Clara blushed and tried not to look frazzled. "No… I don't plan on it… not in the near future, anyway. That's enough for now; open your books to page 212, please."

The class responded with a groan. Why didn't they get to know anything exciting?

* * *

><p>"John? What happened to you the other day?" Verity asked. "You just sort of disappeared after lunch. That's not like you."<p>

John grinned broadly at his coworker, adding an eyebrow twitch for emphasis. "I will have you know that you are looking at a changed man."

"Yeah, and it's kind of creepy. Where did you go?"

"Glasgow," John smirked. He pulled on the semi-fine chain around his neck, bringing it and his wedding ring out of his jumper. Verity opened her mouth, closed it, bit her lip, and tried to figure out how to scold him.

"_That's_ where you were!" Collette gasped as she came over to the lockers. "Oh, wow, how romantic!" John put the ring back underneath his jumper and chuckled.

"Well, you can say I've been worse over a two-day period," he said. Collette giggled at that, though Verity simply frowned.

"I can't believe you, going and marrying some young English girl who wasn't even planning on staying longer than she needed to be!" Verity snapped. She kept her voice low, as to not make a scene. "John, she is younger than Collette."

"By a year."

"She is _younger_ than _Collette_."

"…and what's wrong with Mrs. Smith being younger than me?"

Verity sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. For being dead middle between her coworkers, she sometimes sure felt as if she were still at home with her kids.

"Collette, John is old enough to be your father."

"So…? Mam and Dad tell me love takes all shapes."

"Yes, but… you don't understand."

"I know what you're saying," John interrupted. "Let me tell you Verity: I would not have married Clara if I did not mean it from the bottom of my heart. Since meeting her, I've felt like a different person. _She's_ the one I've been waiting for, not someone else's widow like everyone keeps telling me."

"…and how do you know you're the one _she's_ been waiting for? Have you thought she just might be in it for your royalty checks and war-pensioner's stipend?"

"I actually have to physically go to the publisher with a new story if I want regular royalties out of my books because, well, 'John Smith' isn't exactly a unique name, and call me a pensioner again and, oh, I'll make you wish you swallowed those words." He grinned again, flashing his teeth so that Verity cringed and leaned backwards in an attempt to physically distance herself from him. It was then that one of their coworkers came over, a bemused look on his face.

"Ver, what's Johnny done now?" he chuckled, leaning an elbow on John's shoulder. The older man turned his head towards the newcomer.

"I got married the other day, and _somebody_ doesn't seem to want to accept it," John smirked. The other man's face fell as he stood upright.

"…wait a second… not that English girl you were seeing, right? Please tell me it wasn't the tiny English girl."

"Who else would it be, Steve?" John asked. He pulled the chain out of his jumper again and left it to hang against the fabric. "I love her, so I married her. I'm a bit late to the game but I know how it works."

"Obviously you don't…" Steve said, looking rather uncomfortable as he stared at John's wedding band. "John, she's not marrying material…"

"What do you mean 'she's not marrying material'? I married her!"

"You don't marry a _fling_, John."

"She's not a _fling_. Steve, you and the other guys were cheering me on just a while ago… not you too…"

"It was funny at first, because you with that stupid love-struck look on your face is genuinely hilarious, but it got less funny the more often you came in chewed up like a bit of gristle," Steve frowned. "I hate to say it, but you just went and turned a side-piece into your main squeeze and there's something not right with that."

"See? It's not just me," Verity scoffed. "Took you long enough Steve, but glad you're finally seeing things my way."

With that Verity and Steve both walked away, the former dragging Collette along with her in case John got any more "bright ideas". John leaned into the metal lockers and sighed as he was left alone. Others passed him and performed double-takes, taking note of his ring and whispering to themselves to spare him the embarrassment. Eventually Will came over and blinked in surprise.

"What happened to being the happiest you've ever been?" he laughed. John shrugged.

"You know Clara's not a fling, right?"

Will paused for a moment before tapping his wrist. "What I do know is that shift starts in four minutes and you're nowhere near your station; hop to it or you might get bit by the top brass." He held out a hand, which John took and allowed a pull forward that took his weight off the lockers. They walked out to the floor together and went straight to work; there was still a ship to build, after all.

* * *

><p>"Clara? May I please have a word with you?"<p>

"Huh? Sure," Clara replied. It was lunchtime, leaving her alone as the kids were downstairs in the cafeteria. She looked over at Miss Macintyre, the school headmistress, as she walked into the room and sat down on one of the desks. She didn't look too thrilled.

"What's this I hear from the kids about you no longer being Clara _Oswald_?"

Busted. "I was a bit later than I had expected coming into work this morning, or else you would have been the first to know…"

"Clara, when you said the other day that you needed yesterday off last-minute, I honestly thought it was for your other job for the kids. I didn't think it was because you wanted to get married to the town's artisan bachelor."

"I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression, but it was very moment's notice…"

"This time two days ago you weren't even engaged. Are you _sure_ this is what you want to do with your life?"

"I look forward to the day people stop asking me that," Clara sighed. "You, my old landlady, John's neighbors… no one over the age of ten seems to be happy for us and it's like listening to a busted record."

"That's because none of us really understand what you see in him."

"I know that, but I'd think it's obvious that I brought out something in him no one else has before. He's kind, and sensitive, and thinks the world of me, and have you seen him lately? He's a _dish_," Clara blushed in embarrassment.

"It's been my experience that John Smith has only been as kind and sensitive as you say for roughly four months and even then it seems to be exclusively around you," Miss Macintyre said, trying to ignore the last part of Clara's statement. "He can oftentimes be very rude and callous, even if he does write books for children… or at least so he claims."

"It's true; I've seen his work," Clara replied. She let her shoulders go stiff as she adjusted her posture and sat on the very edge of her seat. "Tuesday afternoon I married an artist currently being useful in a shipyard and there is an age gap between us. I am aware of how it might look, but considering I didn't go into this marriage either pregnant or sending my beloved off to the front lines I think I did alright in the long-run."

"Clara, he was the town bachelor… didn't you once think that there might have been a reason for that?"

"…because I hadn't been awarded my Higher School Certificate yet?"

Miss Macintyre frowned at the joke. "Clara, be reasonable… or at least don't claim you weren't thoroughly warned about this."

"I think I've been warned enough," Clara said. "Still… you haven't seen him with that jumper off…"

"He's a weedy, pasty old man."

"A weedy, pasty old man who has been at a job where he's been working out all day for the past seven months—he is actually incredibly fit for his age." Clara smiled as Miss Macintyre tried to hold in a grimace—that was something she had not wanted to know. "Is that all, Miss Macintyre?"

"For now, I guess. Congratulations, Mrs. Smith. I hope your marriage outlasts anyone and everyone's expectations."

"Thank you."


	11. June 1940

A/N: We need some fluff, I think, after that finale. I did not end up planning the updates this way, I swear on it.

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><p><span>Chapter Eleven<span>: _June 1940_

John looked at the box in his hand and frowned, squinting at the tiny writing on the sides. He sat down on the closed toilet lid and tried adjusting how far away he held the box to see if that would help any. It didn't, prompting him to put the box down on the sink and grumble as he left the bathroom in search of his eyeglasses. It was unusually cool for early evening, making him shiver as he wandered around in just his trousers and vest.

Clara was out for the night, as it was her turn to watch over the children at the school. He was going to go up to visit later with some sandwiches and tea and thwart her boredom with couch-cuddling and chatting until the wee hours of the morning. In the meantime, however, he had decided to make good use of the time without his wife around to test something he would rather not let her know about yet.

After work, John had stopped by the store and picked up some brown hair dye. It looked close enough to his natural hair, he imagined, and the similarities prompted him to try dyeing his hair in secret before letting Clara know he was doing it. He did not have a lot of grey in his hair, which convinced him that now was the time to try. If he had to mess with the process, now was actually the ideal time since at first glance most people would have no idea. Better sooner than later, while the visual age gap between him and his wife was at its minimum. As soon as his hair turned, which would be within a few years if he remembered his parents' experiences, there would only be more problems for them cropping up and the last thing John wanted was for there to be problems. He loved Clara and if he could avoid making her the focus of stares, then the least he could do was put a bit of false color in his hair.

After finding his eyeglasses sitting in his studio, John put them on and went back to the bathroom. He held up the box again and grinned—clarity at last. Some of the words were complicated, the sort he had not needed to use, let alone think about, since art school and earlier, making him read over the box slowly. He blinked, sighing. This was the sort of thing that most of his coworkers would have gotten angry over, or confused, but he knew that it was simply about making sure people didn't go about things all scattershot. If he remembered correctly from the days of mixing indigo and henna by hand back in school, it was easy to go about hair color all wrong and suddenly end up with something bright red or tinged green when all you were looking for was an inky shade of black.

The box said that for best results John would have to bleach his hair. He didn't want to change his whole color, just the stubborn ones that were beginning to multiply. Those were bleached enough, in his opinion. John opened the box and took out the tin with the paste-like dye and a little paintbrush, which he assumed was for application. After gathering some dye on the brush, he ran the paste through his hair and sat on the toilet lid again as he waited for it to set.

Minutes passed slowly, tediously, with John bouncing his leg as he waited until finally he ran his hair underneath the shower head again to wash off the excess paste. He used one of his old paint towels to dry his hair, in case there was a little loose color left, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Too wet to tell still.

Shrugging, John went about finishing preparations to go down to the primary school. He threw on a clean shirt and socks and fried up some Spam for sandwiches. After everything was packed in his bag and tea made, he slipped into his shoes and walked out the door, catching his reflection in the foyer mirror. Still wet, but looking better. He flicked his eyebrows and smirked; so far so good and everything was going swimmingly.

It was nearing sundown by the time John arrived at the school. He nodded to the caretaker as the man was on his way out to go home, the two men sharing silent acknowledgement. John made his way up to Clara's classroom and chuckled to himself as he held back, watching his wife as she commanded her charges down for the night. He waited until the children were all settled in their bedding before he silently walked in through the open door, catching Clara's eye as he did so.

'_Office_,' she mouthed, giving him a smile. John smiled back and complied. He went into Clara's small office and shut the door behind him as to not further risk catching the kids' attention. Just after the sandwiches and tea had been laid out Clara slid in to join him.

"How's it going?" he whispered as she closed the door behind her. Clara came up to him and landed a quick kiss on his lips and a grab of his rear end that made him twitch in surprise.

"You know how they are," she replied in a hushed tone. "The sun is still up, so _they_ need to be up. I swear I'm going to strangle one of them eventually."

"You don't mean that," John chuckled as he sat down in his wife's desk chair. She perched herself in his lap and they began to eat their dinner.

"So how was work?" Clara asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

"The usual. There's talk of a union strike again, which is silly. It's silly on both sides when you get down to it."

"I thought there was talk of that every two weeks."

"Precisely," John shrugged. He turned his head and looked at Clara, who was smiling at him. A little bit of salad cream had escaped the sandwich and gotten on the corner of her mouth, which he licked off with a little kiss. She trembled slightly, making him chuckle. "I'm not going to pretend I understand the whole thing, but no one's going to take talks of strikes seriously if you talk about them all the time and then never do anything."

"Agreed," Clara nodded. She put down the remainder of her sandwich next to her tea cup and leaned into John, kissing him gently. Once his sandwich was down, John was able to return the affection, slowly massaging her hips—an act which Clara took that as the go-ahead to run her fingers through his hair as she leaned further into him. They were not keen on going overboard, not while feet-and-a-wall away from the children, but they both had come to the conclusion that most, if not all, of the children had walked in on their parents at least kissing and cuddling, making such activities free of guilt while on babysitting duty.

…or at least it would have been had Clara not put her hands to John's hair and felt _slime_.

"Ugh, gross…" she hissed, breaking the kiss and pulling back. Clara looked down at her hands and frowned—they were covered in something brown and slick. She smelled it cautiously, making sure it wasn't machinery oil. It wasn't, prompting her to look up into her husband's wide and fearful eyes with her own critical ones. "John…?"

"Yeah…?" He swallowed hard and leaned backwards in a failed attempt to escape her glare, eyes darting around the room.

"What is this?"

"Nothing; I guess I didn't wash good enough."

"No John, this isn't what usually gets in your hair at work. What is this?"

John sighed and stared at the plumes of steam rising up from their cups of tea. His face went red as he muttered under his breath. "I… I thought I'd try out some hair color."

"I'm sorry?"

"I thought I'd try out some hair dye, while there's not much need, so I know what to do later."

Clara squinted as she looked in the dim lamplight at John's hair. It _was_ a different color, but only a very slight difference. She used the back of her wrist to tilt the lampshade and use the extra light to confirm and sighed.

"Go home, John," Clara said plainly. "No, actually, wait until I go wash this stuff from my hands and _then_ go home and wash up until all that gunk is out of your hair."

"Clara, I…"

"No, John." She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. "Now promise me you're not going to do this again."

John grumbled, a jumble of exasperation and worry. "…then what happens when I do go grey? It's not exactly something in the far future for me anymore."

"Go grey," Clara ordered. She touched the tips of their noses together so that they had no choice but to stare into one another's eyes. "Don't you even think about hiding yourself, John Smith. If my husband goes grey after a couple years of marriage, then he's going to flaunt it and not hide underneath dyes. I'd like to think that he's losing the color in his hair due to all the excitement that's now in his life than anything else."

John arched his eyebrows and chuckled. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure; I married you knowing that could happen, now didn't I?" She shook her head and exhaled quietly, softening her tone. "I'm fine with it, as you should be. Now open the door for me, please, so I don't get this stuff on the knob."

"As you wish," John sighed. Clara slid off his lap so he could stand up and open the door for her, bowing so that he was eye level with her as she glared him down on the way out. A few minutes later she returned with her palms scrubbed raw and free of the dye. She smacked John's backside as he left, only half-playful, and watched as he disappeared into the hallway.

Men and their midlife crises were weird.


	12. August 1940

A/N: Of course right after the winter chill starts to set in, I post a chapter that takes place in the dead heat of summer. Awesome. Thanks to everyone who's left a review!

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><p><span>Chapter Twelve<span>: _August 1940_

It was a lazy, sticky, Saturday afternoon as Clara and John stretched out on the sitting room couch together, snuggled close. They were both uncomfortably warm but didn't mind; it had been a rare Saturday alone and that meant that they were going to enjoy themselves even if the weather wasn't perfect.

A creak of metal and the fluttering sound of paper broke the silence in the house. John grunted—a low and guttural noise that rumbled in his chest and through Clara's body.

"Could you please get that?" he asked.

"Why? Can't you get it?"

"You're the one lying on top of me, dearest." John kissed the top of Clara head as she rolled off of him and shuffled over towards the door. Afternoon post had arrived, though it was only one letter. Clara opened it and curled back up on John as she took out the contents.

"I wonder what Dad wants," she mused. John closed his eyes and mushed his face into the couch backrest.

"Maybe he needed to let off some steam about something or other," came his muffled reply. "That is most of what he writes about, correct?"

"Yeah… I guess you're right," Clara smiled. She began to read over the letter and the expression on her face began to drop. The further on she read, the more distraught she became and eventually sat straight up to read. Out-right panic settled on her face, seeping into her voice as she let out a weak "Oh no…"

"What's the matter?" John asked. He too sat up as soon as Clara stood and began pacing the room. "Is something wrong? Is your dad okay?"

"His company is moving him to America for half a year starting the week before he was scheduled to visit us," Clara frowned. "In fact… he's asking if he can move coming up here by a whole month in case they need to send him out last-minute." John watched as his wife bounced around the room in her panic, becoming increasingly more and more distraught by the second.

"He can come tonight if he wants," he shrugged. As she passed, John reached out and latched onto her wrist before pulling her towards him and securing her in his lap. "It's not like we've got very much to do considering how spotless you like the place." This was true, as once Clara had become mistress of the house she had packed all the spare paintings away and reduced their home's clutter to a minimum.

"No, John, you don't understand, I need to _prepare_," Clara insisted. She gently unwrapped his arms from around her waist and began to walk around the room again, muttering to herself.

"Prepare? Prepare what…?" John asked. He waited for an answer, yet got none as Clara was too heavily concentrating on her own thought process. John stood and took her gently by the shoulders, bending down to look her in the eyes. "What do you need to prepare, Clara?"

A flicker of worry flashed across Clara's face before she spoke. "It's personal, John."

"Personal…?" John blinked. "I thought your personal was my personal now and vice versa. I thought we were supposed to be a unit." His shoulders hunched as he peered into her eyes, trying to decipher the meaning behind her words. "Clara… you're not… ashamed of me, are you?"

Instead of replying with words, Clara bit her lower lip and sighed up at her husband—that was all the response he needed. John let go of her and slowly spun around. His eyes began to water as he took a few steps away, but he held it together.

"John, I'm…"

"You're _what_, Clara?" he replied sharply, turning around to face her again. "Trying to figure out how to tell your dad about me? I thought you did!"

"Well, yeah, in letters, but…"

"…but what? _But_ **_what_**, Clara?" John began to pace the room himself, able to cross it quicker thanks to his longer stride. "Oh my… I knew it."

"Knew what…?"

"…that at the first sign of someone not _my_ neighbors, not _my_ mates, not from _my_ life, threatening to come and see us, you'd panic in shame. Admit it: you don't want anyone finding out about me, do you?"

"That's not true!" Clara gasped, insulted. "I _love you_, John; I wouldn't have married you otherwise."

"Then what's all this about needing to prepare and that it's a personal issue you can't talk to me about?" he snapped. "Don't even try to tell me you haven't been avoiding going down to visit your father during summer holiday, because we could have gone on multiple weekends already and you know it."

"I'll have you know that my father is a very busy man, as are you," she fired back. "Have you forgotten this is the first week you haven't been on over sixty hours since we got married? Don't tell me you can just take weekends off as you please."

"I would if it meant to meet someone from your life who is important to you," John insisted. "I know _no one_ from your life before Clydebank; here I was thinking I was going to meet your dad in a couple months and although it'll be incredibly awkward, yes, I'll finally be a real part of your family…"

"…and what about my dad is incredibly awkward?" She folded her arms and shifted the weight on her hips, sending her husband into an acidic scoff.

"Oh, maybe the 'Hello there; sorry I look more like brother-in-law material but yes you're right I'm three years your elder and yet sleeping with your _daughter'_ part of it all? This has never exactly been slated for a normal husband-father meeting."

Clara tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "What, _you're_ ashamed of _me_ now?"

"No! But come on Clara… even you have to admit that eloping in the middle of the week without me even meeting your dad looks sketchy."

"Now we're _sketchy_?"

"We're not sketchy!"

"Then what are we?"

"Oh no, don't you turn this around and get away from the question—why are you so nervous about me meeting anyone from your life?" His arms swung around as he gesticulated, as if their movement would help convey his emotions. "You shouldn't need to _prepare_ if there's nothing wrong. Blimey… I should've seen this coming…"

"Should have seen what coming? Your insecurities turning you into a total arse?"

"No, my wife showing that she really isn't the mature and accepting woman I thought she was. You are such a child…"

"I am NOT a child!"

They stood there glaring at one another from across the sitting room. Clara's hands were balled into fists while John's sat on his hips to take a rest from wildly gesturing. Both of them were shaking from nerves—someone was about to crack.

"If I'm a child," Clara said, slowly and deliberately, "then you're nothing more than a _filthy_ old man."

John snorted derisively. "Yeah, and I didn't even need kids for you to nanny as a pretense for coming hungry and lustful into my bed."

"Excuse me…?" she gasped, her jaw dropping in disbelief at words she never thought she'd hear. Well, she always knew they were coming, but not from the man she married. "Exactly _what_ are you insinuating here, John?"

He rolled his eyes and let his arm fall to his side before going to leave the room, muttering under his breath. "…I can't believe… married… opportunist…"

"What was that?!" Clara snapped. She followed John into the hall, finding him halfway up the stairs. "What did you just call me?!"

"Listen, Clara," John groaned as he turned around. "If you just wanted sex we could have left it at sex without needing to play pretend-house. It's the twentieth century and there's a war that's taken all the pretty young men… I highly doubt I'm in a place to judge you for that…"

"…but I don't _want_ a pretty young man! I want someone who I can love and trust… who will be supportive of me when I'm down on my luck!" Clara curled her upper lip into a sneer as John rolled his eyes.

"Well then, it's good to know my kids will likely inherit a flair for theatrics on top of your very English habit of taking over Scottish households for personal benefit."

"What…?" Clara breathed, her eyes going wide. She stood there stunned for a moment before choking out "Kids…?"

"You work in a primary school; I've never known a woman to work in a primary school without wanting children herself." He shrugged sourly, not sure whether he should be confused as well. "I thought you wanted to be a mam."

Clara inhaled sharply and steeled herself. "John, there is a _war_ going on and you're thinking about having _kids_?! _Without talking to me_ _about it first_?! I'm the one who would have to do all the work in that, you know!"

"…and I figured you'd tell me you were ready after we've had the house to ourselves for a little while. Considering how long it took me to find you, what's a few more months? A year? Don't think I'm cruel, Clara."

"I don't think you're cruel… but I do think you're being incredibly arrogant," Clara said coldly. She paused momentarily to regain her composure while staring her husband down. "You have to look at me, at us, at the big picture, before you can go spouting off things like that. I _do_ want someone who can be the father of my children and I thought it was you… but now I don't know anymore."

"Well then maybe you should've thought more about that on the bus into Glasgow," John mocked. He turned back around and resumed climbing the stairs. "I'm going to take a nap."

"Then I'm leaving," Clara replied. She put on her shoes as the door upstairs slammed shut. The front door may or may not have slammed behind her as well, but she did not care. Clara walked all the way over to the school, where it was empty and desolate due to summer and the kids hosted from London being out on a trip. She stormed through the halls until she found her office. Flopping down on the couch, she finally let out a jagged sob as she curled up in a ball.

'_What have I done…?_' she thought. '_Maybe… maybe everyone was right. He is rude and callous, and I was just blind to it before now_.'

Clara felt like her head was stuffed with cotton as she laid on the couch and cried in the privacy the tiny space allowed. It was becoming difficult to think, with thoughts screaming and compounding in her mind.

'_They warned me. Everyone warned me. Bachelors at his age are usually bachelors for a reason, but I was too naïve to see it._

'_He's arrogant and thinks he's cleverer than he really is; all those times when he was talking about art and films and anything else remotely interesting was him just showing off._' A shiver ran down her spine and she groped for a couch cushion, clutching it tightly. '_He's just been trying to impress me so I'll stay like a good girl and keep house and have babies for him just like any other bloody man I've dated longer than two weeks_.'

Clara sat back up and tried to bring her breathing back to normal. She wasn't going to let him get the best of her, not now, not ever. '_Even if I did just throw my life away, I am going to make it work to my advantage. Arrogance can be reasoned with; five-foot-one and crying—he won't even have the chance to have the last laugh…_'

Setting aside the cushion, she drew her knees up and pulled them close against her chest. Tears tried to flow anew, but she let her head fall forward and let her brow and kneecaps softly bump against one another. She was going to survive this.


	13. A Few Hours Later

A/N: Longest chapter to-date. Rewrites are brutal.

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><p><span>Chapter Thirteen<span>: _A Few Hours Later_

When John woke up from his nap he immediately noticed three things. The first was that it was dark outside his window. The second was that he felt terrible, with sore eyes and a raw throat and a stomach that lurched half of nerves and half of emptiness. The third, but most important thing, was that his arm was extended forward as if to wrap around a small and dainty body that was definitely not lying in bed with him. It was instead around a pillow, which was definitely a poor substitute if he could think of one.

'_Who are we kidding?_' John sighed to himself. '_We were never supposed to work. The only ones who couldn't see it was us._' He tossed the pillow aside and got up, intent on finding something to eat. The house was quiet as he shuffled through it; the only sounds that reached him were the creak of the floorboards and the heavy tock-tock-tock of the grandfather clock. Had it always been this quiet? The icebox only yielded ingredients for larger ventures, a change from the ready-to-eat nature of his diet not even eight months prior. John groaned and closed the appliance.

The house was his… most of the house was undoubtedly his from the furniture in the rooms down to the deed he inherited. If it was his, and only his, then why did everything remind him of Clara? She had not lived there for very long, truth be told, yet looking around only reminded him of how empty the house was without her.

'_I've been an arse_,' John thought as he looked around the front sitting room, dark and bare. He scratched his cheek, bringing his hand down to rub his neck. '_Clara's no opportunist, nor is she looking for an easy life. She married me knowing what she was getting—a shipbuilder's son who paints pictures and pretends he's not the town oddball. For Pete's sake…_'

John quickly walked into the foyer, where he threw on his shoes, grabbed his cap, and walked out the door. It was still overly warm and humid outside, which facilitated enough excuse as to why he skipped throwing a shirt on over his vest. He walked down the pavement and let his feet take him to the primary school. Once there he entered the building and made sure to make as little noise as possible so as to not disrupt whichever classroom had the children in it that night. He found Clara's room and saw that the light was on in her office, bringing him to knock on the door lightly after tossing his hat on the desk.

"Clara?" John asked, his voice hoarse and quiet. He heard quick movements from inside and the sound of something heavy scraping against the tile floor.

"What do you want?" Clara snapped. Her words wounded John, sounding too acidic and accusatory for the woman he married. He gently placed his hand on the wooden barrier before him and set his jaw, preparing for the worst.

"I… I came to apologize," he murmured into the door. He swallowed hard, his mouth drying out at an alarming rate. "No matter what the argument is, no one should _ever_ talk to you like that… your husband least of all. I was wrong and I'm sorry and I… we need to talk. May I please come in? To talk?"

The heavy sound groaned again and the door creaked open just enough for John to see a sliver of Clara's face. It was red and puffy from crying, as well as higher than it should have been. She was kneeling on a short metal cabinet, one he personally knew to be heavy enough to barricade the door, which drove his situation home even further.

She was protecting herself _from him_.

"Promise me," Clara demanded. Her voice had a coldly practiced feel to it despite the slightly jagged edge to her voice. "Promise me _now_."

"I promise I came with every intention of talking, or may my mam, who taught me better, haunt me 'till my dying day," John replied sadly. He took his hand off the door and stepped back a pace, watching his wife debate her next move.

She slammed the door shut.

John's face twitched as he stood in place, not knowing what to do. He extended his arm forward cautiously and hesitated. There was little he wanted to do other than force the door open and grab on to Clara, holding her against his chest tightly until she listened to what he had to say, but that would have been so many steps backwards from what an apology _should_ be that his stomach churned.

That was it—she didn't want to talk. At least, she didn't want to talk now. It was too soon. That was fine, of course. John brought his arm back down to his side and turned to leave. He would let Clara be and come back in the morning. Yeah, the morning. She had to sleep it off too, and sometimes it took younger people longer to reconfigure their emotions. He was almost at the classroom door when he heard the metal cabinet in Clara's office scrape again and the lock unlatch.

"Where do you think you're going?" Clara asked. John looked over his shoulder to see her standing in the entry to her office, the door wide open and a long-handled caretaker's brush in-hands She held the broom with the bristles forward and her stance askew.

"I was…" John started. His wife's glare became harder as she took a step forward.

"You said you were here to talk. Now talk," she said. Her husband fully faced her and put his hands up in surrender.

"Can we go in your office? Please?" His face fell when she didn't answer. "The children aren't that far down the corridor and sounds travel further in the night. It's just talk."

Clara's eyes flit over him and towards the opened hallway door. A moment passed and she stepped aside, tapping the end of the broomstick on the ground and allowing John entry.

"Any sort of funny business and we're _through_, you hear me?" she hissed. John nodded and entered the office, immediately sitting down on the far end of the couch. He folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees as he looked at the floor; the scratches left on the tile by the cabinet were close to _gouges_.

Clara shut the door behind her and engaged the latch. "Well?" She rested the broom up against the wall and sat down in her desk chair. "I'm waiting."

"You were right, Clara," John said, looking over at her sheepishly. "I am a filthy old man and you don't deserve to be spoken to that way. I'm lucky you married me, let alone allowed me in here to talk."

"Damn straight you are," Clara replied. She sat there with her arms folded and legs crossed, glare intensely cutting into John. "At least you realize it now, yeah? How long did it take? Not even four months?"

"I'm sorry if you think I pressured you into marrying me too quickly—you deserve better than that," he admitted.

"Is that why you wanted me to keep my maiden name? So I wouldn't have to change back to it after we realize what a right cock-up this has been?"

"No," John gasped. "Clara, I…" He made to stand and she immediately grabbed the broom handle. She pointed it at him until he was fully seated again.

"Don't. Move," Clara snapped. "I will use this and not for its intended purpose, I swear to God."

"Why are you so afraid of me?" he asked, his voice strained. "I don't… I don't control you. I don't get cross when the queue at the shop keeps you out late, and I love that you still take care of the children from London, even if it means we don't always get to sleep together. I don't beat you or swear at you or belittle you and more than half the time you're the one initiating things in the bedroom. Please, I don't understand…"

"You assume," she said sharply. "Men that assume are just as dangerous as the men that beat their wives and call them whores. I've run into too many men that assume, John Smith, and I am not about to bow to anyone's assumptions."

John licked his lips tentatively and pressed his back into the armrest. "What assumptions?"

"That I will be a good little girl and do as I am told," she hissed. "There are enough men that look at me assuming that I'm a wedding band away from becoming a blushing bedwarmer—that I'll pump out their babies and cook their meals and clean their house and be their tiny little plaything when the lights are out. Men that assume are far from saints, because once things deviate from their plans they transform into arrogant taskmasters. They become the only people that matter, and everyone else become so tiny and insignificant… their wives included."

"The only reason I assumed _anything_ is because I am _old_," he said. John swallowed hard in an attempt to keep his voice level. "I know we hate how everyone points it out, but there's not ten or fifteen years between us… there's _twenty-eight_. It's not fair on you to wait so long we risk my body giving out before any kids we have are grown. I want you to be able to be a mother, not a nurse."

"Do not give me that crock, John; you and I both known that you are in excellent shape," Clara frowned. "You never even talked to me about this."

"I didn't think we had to." John's shoulders fell as his thoughts went back to their wedding day. "I told you when we were filling out the paperwork to keep your name because I'm not going to be around as long as you. I _will_ make you a young widow, no matter how insistent we are to the contrary. My dad, my mam, her brother… they all died in their seventies after having been sick for a long time. I'm almost fifty, Clara. I don't feel it, I don't look it, but I am. There's a good chance I'll be gone before _you're_ fifty and I want to get in what we can with the time given to us."

"If this was such a fear of yours, why didn't you say something earlier?" Clara asked harshly. "You could have mentioned this even in passing long before now, letting me know you had a role picked out for me before it was too late."

"Okay, I admit, we should have had a nicer version of this conversation long ago, back when we were dating, because this right here is no way to discuss our future together. I can't define your role in this marriage—only you can—but it shouldn't hinge on what other men have expected of you in the past."

John watched Clara carefully as she stared at him, sizing up him and his words. She began to look around the room, trying to find something to visually latch on to, before settling on somewhere beyond his knee.

"Bananas."

"P-Pardon…?"

"Bananas, John," she replied. Her voice was still as hard as it was before, though her face became drawn and sad. "I have students that think bananas are imaginary."

"But what do bananas have to do with anything?" he asked. "We went years without seeing certain fruits during the First World War…"

"…and what kind of a world was that?" Clara scoffed. She snapped her gaze up to meet her husband's. He flinched, unsure of precisely what she was saying or how she was saying it. "You said it was bleak, desolate, that you couldn't see the end. If we have children, they will be the light of our lives, and why would you want to bring those precious little things into a world ready and willing to snuff them out? I'm not going to have a nursery with black-out curtains if I can help it."

"This is the first I've heard of this," John said. "You should have said that was a concern…"

"_Opportunists_ don't reveal their plans to anyone, didn't you know?" Clara slouched in her chair and looked away from John, her voice softening to an unhappy whisper. "I thought you knew me."

"If I could take back those words Clara, I would," he insisted. "I was wrong—_very wrong_—in saying them, and they only came out because for a moment I _didn't_ know who you were and I was scared. That shouldn't be an excuse, but it is, and if you feel we should rethink this, then I understand." John sat all the way back on the couch and groaned, dragging his hands over his face. "Let's just go home and, if it's what you want, I'll sleep in the guest room for the time being until we can go back into town and file for a divorce."

"No."

John glanced back at Clara, confused. "I'm sorry…?"

"I don't want a divorce," she clarified. Clara stared at the frosted glass windows of her office with dead eyes, barely blinking in an eerie sort of way. "I just want you to understand. You, of all people, would understand."

Although grateful for the change in tone, John blinked at its existence. "Understand what…?"

Clara sat silent, trying to put together her words. A few moments passed before she quietly continued.

"When you went to art school, what did your father say?"

John mused on that for a while. It had been so long ago now that he had to grope around in his memory. It wasn't a happy recollection, actually one full of pain and regret and lots and lots of shouting. He could still see his caring dad turning into his distant father, with his brown-green eyes unnaturally cold and weathered face gone rigid in disapproval; the memory was one best left forgotten.

"We… fought."

"He thought you were being reckless and irresponsible, right? Your father saw what you knew in your heart was the right choice and thought you were throwing your life away. He still loved you until the day he died, but he never again pretended to understand you. Am I right?"

She was, actually. John up until then had said very little about his parents. There was not much to say about them without being melancholy and needing to raise a glass to two people long dead. Sons of shipbuilders became shipbuilders, or machinists, or some man in a sweatshop working so endlessly that he became a piece of factory equipment himself. Art school was a foreign place to their kind, a place that should stay foreign according to his father. Clara's description was so accurate, down to his father's dying days, that it was eerie given the lack of details she had been privy to. He extended his arm towards her in a silent plea for company and frowned in realization.

"You don't want that to happen with you and your dad, do you?"

Clara propelled the chair with her feet and crossed the tiny bit of room so that she sat directly in front of John. She did not take his hand, instead clutching tightly to either side of the chair cushion. "In a lot of ways, my dad's the only one I've got left," she said softly, avoiding eye contact. "It was a lot to get him to not come up here when I signed up to help usher the kids to safety… I just don't want him to think he was wrong to let me go off on my own. I'd marry you again in a heartbeat John, but that doesn't mean my dad will approve of and accept my decision."

"Oh Clara… Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara…" John brought his arm forward, reaching to brush the hair away from her face. She flinched slightly, causing him to pause before actually carrying out the motion. "I've seen dads and their daughters, and he just wants what's best for you."

"I know he does, but will he see what I see? That it's you?"

"He will see a man who married his daughter without permission, nothing more." He knelt down in front of her and continued to groom her hair by hand, combing and smoothing to tame it out of its frazzled state. "I'm sorry. I should have known I'd cause problems for you when it comes to your dad, just like any proper son-in-law should."

"…and my dad, like any proper dad, is liable to get really upset about a major decision his child made without consulting him," Clara sighed. "I try to keep him informed about what's going on in my life, but all this just happened so quickly it didn't hit me until the morning after we got married."

"At least there are worse things in the world," John replied, allowing a smile more morose than anything spread across his face. He leaned down and placed his head on her lap, the top of his head flush against her torso and his arms wrapping loosely around her calves. "I want you to be able to talk to me if there's something bothering you, because that's what I'm here for."

"Like my dad…" Clara paused for a moment, unclenching her hands from the chair and slowly playing with the hair on the back of his head. "…and you being a dad…"

"I never thought about the war and kids that way, and the way you put it gives me some perspective." John turned his face and pressed his nose between her legs, muffling his voice. "It's not unreasonable, but… just… the thought of not being able to help you raise any kids we have because of my age… that's… that's…"

"None of that," Clara shushed, gently lifting his head and placing a finger on his lips. She trailed her fingertip slowly towards his chin and studied his eyes. "You're going to be a first-rate dad one day—I'll see to it."

"…but say the war lasts four years, like the last one. Four years from now I'll be in my fifties. Ten years from now I'll be nearly in my _sixties_ and…" John trailed off, looking away from his wife in embarrassment before continuing. "_Fathering_ children isn't the same as _being_ a father to children, and you never know how long you've got."

"Your dad died in his seventies, but what did he do for a living?" Clara asked. She turned John's face towards hers again. "Go on, tell me."

"He had Will's job; he was the ship-floor's foreman. Before that he welded, riveted, did just about anything they needed him to do."

"How long did he work at the shipyards?"

John thought for a moment, bringing his arms up and leaning them on the chair. "A long time. He was there years and years before I was born and retired some time during the end of the war. I came home and… there he was, broken and old."

"He worked a hard job with long hours for decades; you've been there not yet a year. All the time before that you weren't wearing down your body, tearing it up so Queen and King can have their Navy. I have no problem imagining you can stay healthy long enough to help me raise our children, even if it takes ten, fifteen, years for the war to end." Clara bent down and lightly, almost chastely, kissed John's lips. "Even out of the young and able-bodied not every father can kick a ball or carry the weight of a sleeping ten-year-old," she reasoned, resting her brow on his.

"…but I can _now_…"

"I know it's a worry you have, and that's fine, but I'd just rather our children not know war and want like my students do." She pressed their foreheads together a bit tighter, as if trying to merge their thoughts. "Things can change, but as of right now that's where I stand."

After letting the words sink in, he brought a hand up to Clara's face and gingerly scraped a thumb across her cheekbone. "I suppose you would know how that would affect a child better than me, wouldn't you?"

"That's… that's not all…" Clara frowned. "Now the war's actually _begun_. Don't tell me that you think that the dogfights in the Channel are going to stay in the Channel."

"They could, but we don't know that," John said. He leaned back and sat on his folded legs, guiding Clara to slide off her chair and straddle his lap. "That's why your students are coming up here and going to Wales and any other bit of countryside they can find: in case they _do_ start flying over England with bombs."

"…and once they do, it's only a matter of time before I start to get war orphans amongst my charges," Clara said, her voice cracking. She put her arms around John and pressed her face into his chest, attempting to compose herself, before shuddering. "As far away from the action as we are, we're still not safe. You work in a shipyard—don't pretend like that's not a giant target—and once they're bored with London, the Luftwaffe could very easily come here. We could be bombed while I'm with child, I could give birth in a shelter, the child could die, I could die… _our child_ could easily be a war orphan. He or she would grow up looking at my dad, asking what we were like because they weren't old enough to remember us… and that's assuming my dad can take care of them. Think of what it would be like if one of us had to raise a child by ourselves… watching them grow, alone…"

John closed his eyes and chewed his lips as Clara stopped. Her body tensed and curled against his, terrified of her own thoughts. She had thought this through thoroughly, there was no doubt about that, and she had a point. As much as he could defend the looming issue of his age, he had to be alive above all else. As a war widow Clara could recover and remarry easily enough, but a war widow with a child to care for was another. He didn't want to think about losing her either, even if he still had a child to raise—a child that would be partly hers, perhaps with her round face or dimples or charming smile. It would hurt to look at their child if Clara herself was not there besides him, more than he could ever imagine, and pained him to think about it _now_. He gently tightened his grip on his wife, kissing the top of her head.

"I don't want to seem like I'm overreacting," Clara whispered, "but it's just that…"

"Shhh, none of that," John murmured, cutting her off. "I didn't even think about that—why would I wonder what it's like to lose you after I've _just_ found you? We can wait until after the war to start planning for children, if you still want them by then. I haven't even met your father and I can't imagine saddling him with a wee babe because we were too reckless."

"So… you understand…?" she asked, voice muffled by his chest. "You get where I'm coming from when it comes to my dad and our kids? You're not angry or disappointed or any of that?"

"I understand fully—this isn't you pouting or putting off something you don't want to do, but you doing what little planning you can in a time when you really can't." He rubbed his unshaven cheek on her smooth one, invoking a soft chuckle. "I love you Clara, my clever wife."

He held on to her as he stood up and sat back down on the couch. With one hand keeping her hair from their faces and the other braced along her waist, he kissed the tip of her nose to test the waters before diving in and taking her lips. She shuddered, though not out of disgust, and let loose a tiny squeak of a laugh.

"Wait, I thought I said no funny business," she giggled.

"You were also going to beat me with a brush. Still want to?"

"No. Let's just… promise."

Locking his eyes with his wife's, John spoke solemnly as he said, "I swear that if it is important, I will talk with you. I never want you to be afraid of me ever again."

"…and I will talk to you," Clara agreed. She disentangled herself from John and sat further down on the couch, grinning back at him. "Now come on; if you're going to act a proper husband from now on, you might as well get off on the right foot. Be my husband. Prove that my filthy old man can still deliver."

John flashed his teeth and lunged at Clara, trying to hold back and not knock her flat against the cushions. They kissed as he squeezed himself onto the couch, protectively surrounding her as she reached up and slid his braces off his shoulders and undid his trouser fastenings. Tears of relief streamed down their faces as they gasped and swore, their want for one another having far from faded.

The tiny office, already too warm to truly be comfortable, very quickly felt close to suffocating as the couple began to shed what few layers they had on. Before long they were down to their undergarments, and even then their tears mixed with sweat borne from weather and movement. It was difficult to stay quiet, particularly with John repeatedly knocking the back of his head on a shelf out of pure reflex. He eventually buried his face in her chest to muffle his moans, something Clara took care of by taking a deep breath and turning her face towards the couch cushion.

Their first fight had been rough, there was no doubt about that, but at least the resolution seemed to be a good one. The only thing to shatter the haze they found themselves in afterwards, where John was slowly dressing Clara as he laid kisses up and down her body, was the sound of a student entering the main of the classroom to search for a misplaced teddy. They froze, John in his pants and lips pressed to a garter high on her inner thigh, Clara sporting a single stocking and knickers, and waited until the child left. One mad, wordless, rush to clothe themselves later and the Smiths snuck out of the building; whatever the children, and the teacher watching over them, didn't know, the better.

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><p>AN: It's worth noting that I've always kind of had this image in my head where John's dad is the AU's version of the War Doctor and Idris is his mom and it makes my heart hurt just a little bit.


	14. September 1940

A/N: I lead a Dave Oswald Appreciation Life and you should too. Haters to the left, viel dank.

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><p><span>Chapter Fourteen<span>: _September 1940_

Kids poured out of the school building as Dave Oswald stood awkwardly, rocking on his heels impatiently. His suitcase sat next to him, signaling to the children that he was a visitor from out of town and not just a man from a different neighborhood than them. A few minutes passed and finally his daughter came out to greet him with a kiss on the cheek and a large hug.

"Oh, it's good to see you again, Dad," Clara smiled. "I'm sorry I wasn't available to pick you up from the station. Did you find the school okay?"

"I found it just fine," Dave chuckled. He picked up his suitcase and began to walk with his daughter as they made their way back to her home. "I'm more interested in how you're doing. You move up here to work and instead you get married…"

"Being married hasn't stopped me from working," Clara explained. "John wants me to be able to do what I love, wife or not."

"Is it money?" he asked, furrowing his brow in concern. "Do you need the money? If you do, you know…"

"No, Dad, we don't need money," Clara sighed. She was already beginning to regret the weekend ahead. "Our house has been in John's family for generations and he has a steady job and a small bit of savings from before the war that we occasionally add to. We're not well-off by any means, but we're fine."

"Alright," Dave shrugged. "I guess I'm just a bit worried about you. Married after four months—though I've seen quicker weddings brought on by war and trouble—it simply has me concerned."

"We're happy though."

"I know you are, and that's why I'm not cross." Dave smiled as they walked down Wissforn Road, taking in his surroundings carefully. "This does look like a lovely place for my grandchildren to grow up."

"Dad, stop it," Clara laughed. "I think you're likely to see a Nazi before a grandkid as long as this war keeps up."

"Well that doesn't exactly leave a man hopeful," Dave deadpanned as they walked up to the house. Clara let him in and showed him up to the guestroom that had been prepared earlier that morning… or, at least, she tried to, as Dave kept on wandering around curiously.

"Dad, come on, the guest room's this way," Clara sighed as he poked his head in the sitting room. She had to gently pull her father along by the arm in order for him to start climbing the stairs.

"This was in John's family?" he wondered aloud. "It looks old, but rather well-kept."

"His gran's granddad built the whole street; they used to do rather well for themselves, but the last bit of that legacy remaining is the house," Clara explained. "A couple of the neighbors are convinced otherwise, but that's because not many of them make the effort to understand John. The inheritance made living cheap, at least."

"You married into money?"

"No, married into _former_ money. Dad, he builds ships for Heaven's sake… and not because he designs them or oversees construction or handles funds." They were now at the door to the guest room, which Clara opened and entered before he so she could let in some air from the windows. "John's just as normal as you and me—don't forget that."

"Alright…" Dave said as he put his suitcase down at the foot of the bed. He watched his daughter as she left the room, only more curious about the man he was there to meet.

Once downstairs again they sat in the front room having tea as they waited for John to come home. Despite their idle small talk—the weather, Dave's train ride, how things were back at home—Clara became progressively antsier as the regular time for her husband to come home edged closer and closer. Eventually, her nervousness came crashing down on her as she heard the door open and heavy boots walk through the foyer.

"Clara? I'm home."

"John," she called out, her voice weaker than normal. "My dad's train got here on time. We're in the front room having some late tea."

"Coming." John kicked off his boots and walked into the sitting room, swallowing hard in uneasiness. Dave quirked an eyebrow at the man that now stood before him; a worn face with grey beginning to dust his brown hair was not exactly what he had been expecting based on his daughter's letters. Dirt and grease and sweat he had been, but not the beginnings of jowls and age lines. He was tall too, a good head taller than he was, and skinny… _Christ_, was he skinny for a working man.

"So Dad, this is John," Clara smiled nervously. "John, meet my dad."

"Uh, how do you do?" John asked, extending his hand towards Dave. The other man stood and shook it, trying not to focus on his filthy vest and toned arms that looked like they could knock him out in a brawl in no-time flat.

"You're my daughter's…?"

"Husband, aye. Sorry I'm not exactly looking like I should be entertaining—they had me oiling machinery today at the yard."

"Clara did say something about you building ships now. What did you do before the war…?"

"I illustrated children's books, painted pictures, that sort of thing," John smiled. "Excuse me, but let me just wash up quick and change into something cleaner before we get too carried away." With that he disappeared into the hallway and the dumbstruck Dave sat back down on the couch.

"That's your husband…?" he asked. Clara nodded in affirmation, but kept her eyes on her teacup. "Clara, he looks older than me."

"By three years, yeah."

"…and he really is an artist building ships. Here I thought you were exaggerating something because all the young men I know that didn't make the cut to get shipped out are out-right embarrassed and ashamed."

"He is a bit self-conscious about being too old for service anymore, but he fought in the Great War and there's no shame in that," Clara said quickly. Her eyes darted up towards her father, but quickly found her tea again. "We do what we can, Dad, and that's what matters."

"Then neither of you needed to be married for whatever reason? There's no secret gold stash and he's not some under the radar laird ensuring his inheritance or none of that going on?" Dave saw in his daughter's eyes that her veneer was beginning to crack, that her sense of control was fading, as she put her teacup down on the table. He took hold of one of her hands and she snapped her head up, meeting his gaze. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't disapprove a little bit, because you're worth no less than a landed lord in my eyes and that's what all fathers are like. If you're happy, then that's great. Love does crazy things, and love in war is even crazier, but I need some time to understand is all."

"Mum would've liked him." A statement, not an accusation.

"Your mum liked everyone."

Clara laughed at that. "That's beside the point. He's a good man."

"…and I expect nothing less. I'll settle for a good man, landed or not."

"Dad…" Clara groaned. She leaned back into the armchair in a sense of irritation nearly cosmic in scale. No matter what, this was still her dad.

"Does anyone else want more tea?" John called from the kitchen. At this Clara perked up, grabbing her teacup and downing the remainder in one go.

"Yes, please!" she replied. John came in with the teapot moments later and refilled her cup. He was wearing clean trousers and an actual shirt, which he had rolled the sleeves up past the elbows. After giving Clara a quick peck, he turned to Dave.

"More?"

"Of course." Dave held out his cup and John filled it, albeit shakily. He left again, to return with his own steaming mug which he sipped while sitting on the arm of Clara's chair. Dave laughed, "I came all the way up here to meet you, John. There's room enough on the couch next to me."

"O-Okay…" John stammered. He walked around the coffee table and sat down next to his father-in-law, a man that really could have been his younger brother. Nervously he fiddled with his wedding band, freshly moved from the chain it hung on while at work to his hand. It sat a little loose on his finger; he was eventually going to have to bite the bullet soon and get it resized, as his father's fingers had been thicker with muscle than his were.

"So, you used to illustrate children's books?" Dave mentioned to break the silence that settled between them. "Got any kids yourself? Nieces and nephews?"

"Ach, no. I just like telling stories, you know?" He waved around his mug between sips of tea, dangerously close to spilling mid-gesture. "Barely anyone around here believes that I'm the one who wrote their children's books. To them I'm just an old bachelor who had a stroke of luck earlier in the year, nothing more."

"Never had kids, never been married?"

"No. You remember how crazy it got after armistice—some of us were too full of life for our own good and just happy to be alive. Besides, I came back home to find all the good girls shacked up with strapping lads bred for factory floors and the ones leftover either had turned too cold or too warm for my tastes."

"So you waited."

There was a pause, one large enough for the ticking of the clock on the wall to begin to dig in with each passing second.

"I gave up." John looked at Dave and gave him a small smile. "That's some daughter you raised. Thank you for sharing her."

Dave hesitated momentarily before clapping a hand on John's shoulder and smiling back. "You're welcome." He glanced over at Clara, who had a look of relief on her face. "Enough of that… tell me how you two met. My memory of what was in the letters is a bit hazy."

"Oh, we met in the pub," John said. "We both had bad days at work and needed to cool off. I went for a second round and found my table occupied and that was that."

"Don't forget your coworkers," Clara grumbled. "Those nosy, disrespectful hooligans ought to be ashamed of themselves and learn some manners. I pity any girl that ends up with them."

"You always did have a high standard. Maybe that's why you went with someone who was already established," Dave shrugged. "Though a pub… that's hardly what I'd call romantic."

"Dad… you and mum met because you almost walked into the road," Clara groaned.

"…and she saved me, so that's more romantic than a lot of people get."

John smirked into his tea, trying with all his might to not burst into laughter.

"What…?" Dave gasped in feigned-insult. "Is my _son_-in-law not a romantic?" The smirk quickly turned into a choke as tea went up John's nose.

"I… uh… I'm…"

"Hey, relax. Weird for you, but weirder for me." Dave reached into his pocket and produced a kerchief, which he offered to John. "I think that we're both willing to put that aside though. What do you say?"

John took the kerchief and wiped the errant tea off his face. "Yeah," he coughed, clearing his throat out. "I think so." He put the dirtied cloth down on the tea tray. "I'll, uh, wash that for you."

"That's fine," Dave replied. "I actually get them at work; for some reason we just have a stack of them we're allowed to pluck from. Hey, Clara tells me this house was in your family?"

"Y-Yeah. I'm the fifth generation to live here." He looked away from Dave, face going red, and tried to drink some more tea again. "Eventually, once the war's done, we'd like to make it six."

Clara sank back in her chair and watched her father eye her husband. The tension, although not thick per say, could be felt sitting amongst them awkwardly. She counted the seconds she heard off the grandfather clock—ten, eleven, twelve…

"That's natural though, yeah?" Dave finally said. Clara's eyes went wide, shocked at his nonchalant tone. "I mean, Clara's wanted to be a mum ever since she was a little girl. Don't keep me waiting too long though—I'm actually kind of keen on the idea of being a granddad."

"Ugh… Daaa_aaad_…" Clara whined. She downed the rest of her tea to steel herself as she looked at the two men on the couch. Her father was giving her a cheeky grin, while her husband was, with the straightest face she ever thought possible, wiggling his brow at her suggestively.

It must have been something in their generation, she thought. Yes. That was it. Something in their generation had made both her father and her husband insufferable morons… and a little part of her was glad for it.


	15. Some Hours Later

A/N: Thanks, everyone, for the overwhelming support for the previous chapter! It's good that people like Dave, since we will be seeing more of him in the future.

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><p><span>Chapter Fifteen<span>: _Some Hours Later_

Later that night, after dinner and staying up talking, Clara bid her dad goodnight as Dave retreated to the guest room. He had started off the visit wary of his mystery son-in-law, but eventually warmed up to the point where the two men were swapping stories about their old schools and regiments, with Dave even sharing stories from when Clara was a child. It made her happy to know that her father was not going to object to her choice, and that their relationship would not be further strained by her new one.

She went into her bedroom and found that her husband was already in bed, stripped down to his underthings and nestled in the blankets. Clara undressed and joined him, soon within a grasp that was exhausted yet adoring.

"You never told me that," she said, breaking the silence between them. John opened his eyes and saw her face directly across from his, so close their noses almost touched.

"Never told you what?"

"What you told my dad earlier… you never told me anything about giving up. What was that about?"

"It's no longer important; let's get some sleep."

"It may not be important _now_, but it was apparently important _once_. Please tell me."

John rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. "Just as I'm sure you've had boyfriends before, I've had a few girlfriends, way back when. It had just been so long between my last girlfriend—my last real date that wasn't some sort of setup—and you that in the meantime I just sort of stopped operating in that sense. I've always been good at existing alone, so eventually, I figured, there just wasn't anyone out there for me. I accepted it as a fact because nothing else seemed to refute it. Like I said long ago: I was fine with being Wissforn's version of Mr. Blake, complete with a creepy old house and solitary lifestyle."

"That sounds awful," Clara mused as she cuddled up against John's side, resting her head on his shoulder. He shrugged and gently wrapped his arm around her waist.

"It happens, and that's actually what pushed me towards books in the first place. I don't have kids, and most of the ones in the neighborhood know me as the loner old man who thinks himself better than everyone else, but you'd probably be hard-pressed to find a nursery in town without at least one of my books in it. Those are my children, meaning I already have a family whether they realize it or not. I got on without a wife fine, so why worry?"

"And in all that time, there was never a girl you fancied enough to make you court her seriously?" Clara asked. "I never thought I was the first woman to hold that honor."

"Well, you're right in that you're not," John said. He sighed and reached back into his memory, surfacing things he no longer cared for out of disenchantment more than anything else. "Mélanie."

"Excuse me?"

"Her name was Mélanie, and she was French," he elaborated. "I was twenty-six, she was twenty-three, and she lived near where I was stationed for a time. All the guys in my unit thought she was beautiful but cold because she wouldn't give them the time of day. I saw a trilingual goddess translating enemy communications, who grew up studying in Algiers and could talk at length about Moorish Africa and the history there. We almost did get married, but she didn't want to be a war bride and convinced me to wait. Eventually I had to go one way and she another. We corresponded for a while, but it wasn't meant to be."

"Did she not love you the same way?"

"She said she did, and I believe her to this day, but the last letter I got from her said she was going to Alexandria for work and that she'd write for my birthday. When that next letter never came I spent a few months writing to her old address in France and to the university she was supposed to be working at. She just vanished; people sometimes did that, whether they wanted to or not."

"That was it? Just like that?" Clara asked. "She just left you with nothing? Not a word? That's cruel."

"Not entirely...by the time I started writing the letters, I had moved in here. And so, when the responses came in slower, I was able to look around and remind myself that nothing depend on whether or not I'd see Mélanie again. I still had a home of my own, with a bed and food and a place to work - a fact that did not hinge on my missing fiancée, despite what others may think. It's possible for a man to survive without a wife and be perfectly content, so I grieved and… well… moved on." He ran his free hand over his face as he paused, reflecting on the matter. "Looking back, I can see we wouldn't have been happy. I was too stationary for her and she was too… fleeting. I hope she's doing well with her studies, maybe with someone else who can see her as a person that is warm and vibrant. She deserves that at the least."

"That was it until me?"

John chuckled sadly. "No. There were others—a pub run-in here and a match-made date there—but none of them really made me feel like marriage was in my future… not until you blew it all out of the water." He rolled on top of Clara and nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck, making her giggle quietly. "All notions I'd had about giving up, staying the neighborhood bachelor, remaining alone for the rest of my life... none of it was important anymore after I met you."

Hesitating, Clara dipped her nose into John's fluff of hair and asked a question she had been stewing for longer than they had been married. "Before we met, how long had it been?"

"Well," he said, reflecting, "I went dancing in '24 with a woman who the next day pretended to not know me and that's when I stopped looking for good. Sex was longer still; after everyone was home from the war, one of my old uni mates had most of us over during the Christmas holiday and through the first week of '21." John paused and rested his chin on the top of her shoulder. "Oh…"

"Oh…?"

Clara felt him press his face into her neck and frowned, his skin flushing hot with embarrassment. "I just realized I forgot her name. I had a lot of whiskey that visit—my mate was descended from something or other and could afford it. It should say something that I remember the malt better than the girl, but I don't know what other than that I should be ashamed."

"No, probably that you were young and frustrated and drunk for three straight weeks on someone else's tab," she said. She traced her fingertips in lazy circles along her husband's back. "You really didn't know what was going on our first time, did you?"

John lifted himself up onto his elbows and hovered above his wife. "I had a… general idea. After going without for so long, I forgot what I had been missing. It's like when we went to that restaurant in the country and those scones reminded you of your mam's. Everything just came over you all at once and you started crying."

"…which was _very_ embarrassing and thank you for bringing it up," Clara frowned, crinkling her nose. "So I'm like that scone?"

"You're better than that scone, because you didn't remind me of someone else, but instead reminded me of what I can be: a loving husband and, eventually, a doting father. It rushed me almost all at the same time and hasn't stopped since." He then began to kiss her, starting at her mouth and running down her cheek until he was behind her ear.

"…and when, may I ask," she giggled, "did you fall victim to your love-struck urges?"

"I knew there was something there after our second date, even though I tried to convince myself it was only my brain overworking," he admitted, letting himself fall to his side. "I was still nervous despite that. It's okay to be head over heels, but not to be in over your head."

"That sounds like a good philosophy to have." She paused and turned to face the man next to her. "Second date sounds about right though."

"If I could travel back in time and meet myself this time last year, I'd never believe this was real," he murmured. John drew Clara in tightly and closed his eyes, touching their foreheads gently. "You are my miracle of a second chance, and I don't want to ever lose you."

"Not if I can help it," she smirked. Clara brushed her lips against John's lightly, only to exhale heavily. "Let's get some rest. We're taking Dad into town tomorrow."

"Oh yeah, we are, aren't we?" John's voice began to dip into a rumble, distant and full of sleep. "Good night, Clara."

"Good night, John."


	16. November 1940

Chapter Sixteen: _November 1940_

Smiling to herself, Clara hurriedly mixed the batter in the bowl. It was Saturday and Saturday meant that John was only going to work half a shift. When he came home today, however, he would arrive to a special treat: her mum's soufflé, once famous throughout all of Blackpool as one of the best a man could get. She had been stealthily saving up the ingredients for it and was prepared to make the afternoon a special one.

Today was his birthday—not as if he had told her or anything. But when she was filling out her information on their marriage license, Clara had taken note of what her jittery bridegroom had written down on his side: _23 November 1891_. John was turning forty-nine and Clara wanted to make a fuss, even if it was just a little one in the grand scheme of things. Better start breaking things in now, at forty-nine, than the following year at fifty. People hardly ever took fifty well, from what she remembered, and considering he did not seem like the kind of person that ever had reason to celebrate his birthday before… well… baby steps seemed like a better option than charging head-first into festivities.

The ramekin was in the oven as the front door opened and a set of heavy boots trudged into the house. "Clara?"

"In the kitchen!" Clara smiled. She put the batter bowl in the sink and began washing it out, only to have a pair of hands land on her hips and kisses begin to appear along her neck.

"What's that I smell?" John asked. His voice was low and rumbling; he was too tired to do much more than stand there thanks to the newly quickened pace he had to adjust to at work. Destroyer-ships did not build themselves, after all, and even less so when behind schedule.

"Your lunch," Clara said. She dried her hands on her apron and turned around to kiss her husband. "You deserve a treat today."

"I'm so beat right now I'm afraid I'd fall asleep in the middle of a treat," John groaned. "Maybe later tonight?"

"I _meant_ something special to eat," Clara laughed. "Now sit down, birthday boy, and let me put together your lunch."

John froze up, his eyes widening and brows rising in sudden alertness. "Who told you?"

"I saw on our marriage license," Clara explained. "Don't be silly; it's your birthday. I would think that your wife is allowed to know about your birthday. You know mine, so it's only right I know yours."

"I don't _like_ my birthday."

"Who does when there's no one to celebrate with? Now sit down before I change my mind and decide we're having porridge."

After studying her face, John cautiously walked across the kitchen and sat down. He felt self-conscious now knowing that Clara was aware of his precise age. He hadn't actively celebrated his birthday in almost twenty years, and he was even less keen on it now than before. It was a number that did not match how he felt (most days at least)—he was _twenty_-nine as far as he was concerned… well, twenty-nine twenty times over. The number was arbitrary, and they both knew it, but the last thing he needed was for the math to catch up to him.

"Almost ready," Clara sang, putting two plates on the table. John reluctantly took a fork and knife from the canister of utensils sitting on the table and frowned.

"What are we having?" he asked in quiet defeat.

"It's a surprise," Clara smiled, bending down to kiss him on the nose. John blinked at her uneasily.

"You don't have to do this. Birthdays have never been that special to me."

"Just because they never have been doesn't mean they can't ever be." Clara held his hand and patted it gently. "I'm not going to throw you a party or anything like that unless I know you want one, and it's obvious you don't want one now, but what _I_ know is that I want to spoil my husband on his birthday, as any good wife should, even if it's just a little bit."

"You being here is enough," John replied. Clara let go of his hand and ran her fingers along his jawline before turning back to the oven. She opened it and looked inside, only to gasp.

"No! No, no, no, no, no!" Clara cried. She took the ramekin out of the oven and slammed it on the stovetop—the soufflé had fallen and was a little too dark to be considered perfectly done. She quickly paced around the kitchen after kicking the oven door closed, fuming, before disappearing into the adjacent dining room and hiding out of sight.

John tried to lean in his chair in order to see where Clara went. She must've squeezed into just the one corner he could not see from his angle, he thought, before standing up and walking over to the doorway. He found Clara huddled on the floor, wedged between the wall and the grandfather clock.

"Are you okay?"

"No…" Clara muttered. "Just… give me a couple minutes and I'll come up with something else. I'll be fine."

John took a step forward. "…but we can just remake it…"

"No we _can't_, John. That was the only shot," Clara snapped. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and coughed, clearing her throat. "Stupid oven… I guess I'm just never going to get used to that bleeding thing and how it holds heat compared to my old one. Just… go take your shower."

Without another word, John retreated back into the kitchen and looked at the crispy creation sitting on the stovetop. He tilted his head as he studied the dish—without having ever seen a soufflé before, he was unsure of what it was supposed to look like. The dish seemed edible enough, if a bit squished-looking, and shrugged in acceptance. He bunched up a tea towel and used it to carry the ramekin to the mat on the table. John cut himself a slice and began eating—the crust was a little leathery and the insides a bit creamy, but it was overall not bad. He continued to eat until Clara came back in, her eyes going wide at her husband.

"What are you doing?" she asked, more than a little taken aback.

"Eating lunch."

"…but, it burned and fell!"

"So? Still tastes good," John shrugged. "Did you use actual eggs in this or did you use the reconstituted stuff you've been buying?"

"Uh… real eggs…?" Clara warily sat down across from John and watched him as he ate. "You like it?"

"Yeah. What is this?"

"A soufflé. My mum was really good at them, so it's her recipe."

"I get the notion she was the best baker in Blackpool," John smiled. He shoveled some more food into his mouth and watched as Clara began to let the corners of hers twitch upwards slightly.

"You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it." He paused and glanced across the table at his wife, whose temper seemed to be settling down. "Is… is that why you were upset? Because it's your mam's recipe?"

Clara nodded. "I made them perfectly fine at home, and I thought I could do it in one go after so long, but…"

"Hey, I told you, it's fine. You tried, right? You tried and it still came out fine."

"I _try_ an awful lot, don't I?" Clara deadpanned. "John, I burn one-half of what I make and undercook the other. I should be _good_ at this, don't you think?"

"I don't know… _should_ you?" he asked, putting a look of surprise on her face. "Just because a mam's good at one thing doesn't mean her daughter's good at that exact same thing, or even in the exact same way. I don't find anything wrong with your cooking, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"How would you know?" Clara replied, a bit more caustic than necessary. "I'm _supposed_ to be good at cooking and baking—I've done it enough to be competent in a kitchen… any kitchen except this one. It's really frustrating to not be able to turn out anything right when you know you can. Besides, how would you know about mums and their daughters?"

"I've… seen them before," John said hesitantly. He took another bite of soufflé and turned his eyes down towards the dish. "It works for fathers and sons too… just a bit different."

"I _was_ a good cook, whether I advertised that fact or not," she frowned. "_You_ just didn't want the life your dad wanted you to have because you were better at art."

"Not… exactly," he shrugged. "I tinker… a lot. You haven't seen the boiler break down yet, or the film projector freeze, or me build a frame for my canvases. I've got the mind for a machinist, just not the desire. I could barely sketch a thing my first day of art school."

"…and I'm apparently only allowed to cook one decent meal a month."

"Not from where I stand" John said. He paused, allowing Clara to think. "A good cook doesn't make a good wife, a good person does. Besides, you don't have the time other wives do most days—while you're at work, they're in queues and doing things around their houses. You do some pretty impressive things, you know?" Taking another bite of soufflé, he waved his hand nonchalantly. "If you keep on comparing yourself, you're never going to be happy."

"How do you know that's what I'm doing?" she grumbled.

"Because I did exactly the same thing: my art wasn't as good as the bloke's next to me, I was shit at treating a lady out because I couldn't afford what my mates did, my books weren't as popular as this one or that… it's enough to drive a man insane if the trenches didn't get to him first." John gave Clara a wry smile and took another slice of the soufflé. "It's something you learn how to recognize and come to terms with as you age."

"Then it's a good thing I didn't fall in love with a man still wet behind the ears," she replied dryly.

"One of the many perks of marrying in the over-forty set, my dear." He flicked his eyebrows cheekily and allowed his smile to become a grin. "Go on—take a slice. It's honestly not that bad."

Eyeing John suspiciously, Clara cut herself a slice of the soufflé and placed it on her plate. She took a bit on her fork and jammed it in her mouth. It was already starting to cool, making the texture one that was far from appetizing to her. She tried not to grimace as she placed her fork down and forced herself to swallow.

"What? Come on Clara, it's not that bad…"

"It _is_, and you either don't know any better or are trying to save face," she hissed. "This is _disgusting_."

"No, it's not."

"And why is that?"

"You made it."

Clara groaned and glared across the table at her husband. "You're an idiot."

"If I'm an idiot, then at least I'll be an idiot that's going to get his fill," John said, his tone a false sort of haughty. He took a third slice of soufflé, leaving nothing left in the ramekin.

"You're going to get sick if you eat that much," she frowned.

"I'd rather fall ill eating my wife's cooking than anything else," he grinned, allowing a glint in his eyes that sent a chill down Clara's spine. "Soufflé… that sounds French, right? French cooking from my lovely wife, in my own home, on my birthday… never thought I'd live to see such a thing."

"It's just a ruined soufflé…"

"Have you met the neighbors? They wouldn't know about anything French even if refugees set up camp right outside their doorstep. Honestly, I'm the luckiest man in the neighborhood; better this than neeps and tatties day in and out."

"That's… swede and potatoes… right…?"

John nodded. "You sure you've been living in Scotland for almost a year?" He swallowed the bit of soufflé that was in his mouth and flashed his teeth. It was now Clara's turn for defeat as she sighed and forced herself to eat another bite of the soufflé.

"You know Clara," John said, "I was thinking about getting a new stove anyways. Granny never did trust gas ovens, so that's just what I'm used to, and many of the neighbors still use their wood and coal stoves even though they ran a gas line under the street back when I was a lad." He took the top of his foot and rubbed it up Clara's calf in an effort to make her smile.

"Were you now?" she replied, her voice flat. "This has nothing to do with me?"

"I was planning on getting it for Christmas, but I think now's a good a time as any to tell you. Maybe you can practice this soufflé thing again for our anniversary?"

"Well, I _had_ been thinking about saving up for a chocolate-raspberry torte instead, but if that's what you want…" Clara started. She giggled as she saw his eyes grow wide and eyebrows arch, questioning whether she was serious or not. Smirking, she hooked her heel around John's foot and trapped his leg between her own. They both chuckled, giving one another flirty glances across the table as they finished their lunch.

It wasn't exactly as how Clara planned it, but John's birthday lunch ended much better than she had feared it would when she took the dish out of the oven. Things weren't perfect, but there was always next year at fifty.


	17. December 1940

A/N: This chapter is admittedly very short, but it used to be even shorter... so yeah.

Shameless plug: Do you like Malcolm Tucker/Clara Oswald? I wrote a one-shot for it, if anyone's interested. If not, that's cool too.

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><p><span>Chapter Seventeen<span>: _December 1940_

John sat in his studio, diligently sketching. It was his first full day off of work for year-end holidays and he was going to use it wisely. Clara stood in the corner on a chair, draped in a bedsheet and wobbling as she posed, pretending she was holding something small up in her hand.

"Are you sure this makes me look like a classical muse?" she asked. John kept on sketching, but not before rubbing his nose and smearing even more graphite on his face.

"Close enough," he replied. "At least, if anything, you're _my_ muse."

"That is very kind of you but I feel ridiculous."

"Don't worry, I'm almost done. Then we can take a break."

"Oh, good. There is a cramp in my foot that is _killing_ me."

"Body parts trying to kill you? You have to be at least in your forties for that to happen, dearest," John smirked. He put down his pencil. "There, done."

Clara groaned as she lowered her hand and slouched. "Thank God. I thought there for a moment that my arm would fall off."

"Not fall off, but it might tingle with bloodrush," John said. He held out his arm towards his wife. "Would you like to see?"

"Sure," Clara shrugged. She pulled the sheet further around her and sat on John's lap to look at the contents of the large sketchbook. There she was alright, looking very much like a statue from antiquity. She rested her head on his shoulder and smiled. "It looks good. Your skill's held up."

"I sketch a lot otherwise, so even if it's not my job anymore I'm still drawing," John said. He wrapped his arm around Clara's waist and kissed the side of her head. "It helps I have such a lovely model."

"Mmhmm, sure it does," Clara murmured. She leaned up to kiss John, forcing him to put down his sketchbook and brush her hair out of their faces with his now-free hand.

"Calm down there, Clara Smith," John laughed. "It's not even lunchtime yet."

"Doesn't change the fact I'm feeling a bit peckish."

"You do have an appetite for being as small as you are." John slid his hands through an opening in the bedsheet, finding Clara's naked body with ease. He felt along her lower back and rear end as she placed more and more of her weight on his torso, forcing him to lean backwards in his chair. John eventually leaned so far back that his head bumped into a table where several inkpots and paint containers lay. "Oi, hey, watch out dear—can't be too careful."

"What, you'd rather have art supplies than your wife?"

"No… I can always have my wife, theoretically. The paints though… they aren't exactly in ready supply these days."

Clara looked down at her husband, too amused to be fully-insulted. "Oh, I see, so that's what marriage is about, hmm? Constant access?"

"No. I don't have constant access to you. Got to unwrap you first."

"Unwrap…?" Clara asked, confused. John leaned in and kissed the crook of her neck, only to jerk back and pull the bedsheet so that it wound tightly around his wife, immobilizing her.

"See? Father Christmas came early and left me a present."

"You are naughty, you know that?"

"Well, it's too late for him to come back and leave me some coal now that we've replaced the stove, so I might as well enjoy myself," John smirked. He stood up and carried Clara out of the studio and into their bedroom. After placing her gently down on the unmade bed, he gave her a moment to free her limbs once again from their linen constraints before he climbed in over her and began to run kisses down her neck and chest. Clara smiled to herself as she tugged at his jumper and yanked the woolen garment over his head.

"…and to think that everyone seems to want to warn me about you."

John stopped his advances and rested his face on Clara's chest, grumbling.

"What? What's wrong?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows. She leaned to one side and began to comb her fingers through his fluffy hair, frowning. "John? Please tell me."

"Are they _still_ doing that?"

"Well, yes… but I…"

Rolling off of her, John laid on his side and faced the vanity. He was too low to see himself in the mirror, but could see Clara's as she sat up and leaned over his shoulder to look at his face.

"Come on, John. Don't be like that."

"How long is it going to take everyone to realize that this isn't wrong, that it's not something of convenience or ill intentions?"

"I don't know… I think it's pretty convenient being able to live in the same house and not have to worry about my landlady harassing us. I can be your wife and you can be my husband and no one can tell us we're improper because we _are_ doing things in the right order."

John felt Clara's chest press into his shoulders as she wrapped an arm around him. "You're nothing like what they say, so really there's nothing to worry about," she continued. "I know better than to believe that you're probably only after me for my looks or because you want to make the other men your age jealous. Those same people are probably also wondering why I'm not as large as a house, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"Why would you be… oh." John blinked slowly at the dark lacquered wood of the vanity; children. He'd been getting questions at work as to when he was going to get around to impregnating his wife and taking off on a late start to fatherhood. With as many times as he had to answer "after the war", he had to hear "that will never last" at least twice over. What was worse were the accusations—that he was only using her to warm his bed as long as she was young and pretty. He had never been that way about a woman, even when he was young and brash and raging drunk, so why in the world would he start that sort of behavior _now_? It was irritating and insulting, though he realistically had no proof as to otherwise.

Clara kissed the side of John's head and hummed, hitting a deep and sultry note. "What did we agree on?"

"…not until after the war."

"No… I meant about people, you blockhead—no wonder no one thought you could rule yourselves."

"Oh." John rolled his eyes, remembering to tuck away some jab at his wife's Englishness for later. "We agreed that anyone who had a problem with us can kindly fuck off."

"That's right… and why is that?"

"…because they don't even believe I illustrate children's books. If they don't believe my chosen career path, then they won't understand my motivation for marrying you."

"Precisely. Now come on and let's get back to sketching. I seem to remember you saying you needed an anatomy refresher a couple hours ago."

John laid there silently, not feeling much of anything anymore. Clara groaned and slid off the bed, taking the sheet with her. After a long silence he followed, only to find her in the studio, linen discarded on the floor, lounging in the chair she had been standing on. She looked up from the book in her hand and gave a smile, sly and coy and inviting all at the same time.

"Took you long enough," she said.

"I should draw a harelip on you for that." John sat down and picked his sketchbook back up, smirking at his wife's irritated expression.

"Don't you _dare_."

"Yes, I think a harelip and a giant swath of warts and oversized feet," he laughed. Clara's face went from irritated to down-right cross as she folded her arms and tapped her foot on the floor—Father Christmas's present was a little more surly than John had previously imagined and he was fine with that.


	18. New Year's Eve 1940

A/N: Sometimes I forget that at this point in the story Clara is only twenty-one years old. This was one of those chapters for a while.

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><p><span>Chapter Eighteen<span>: _New Year's Eve 1940_

John sat placidly at the bar while he quietly sipped his beer. His ears throbbed with the amount of noise that was buzzing around the pub. A war, it had been decided, was no reason to cancel New Year's celebrations and the house was packed. Clara was… somewhere in the mess of people, likely dancing and imbibing herself. That was fine; he never had been much of a party person, but Clara had wanted to experience the famous rowdy Scottish Hogmanay for herself and was near insistent after the rather quiet Christmas they had.

He was just about to order some pie when the empty barstool next to him became occupied and the newcomer ordered a drink. "A pint please, whatever's popular." John looked over and had to double-take: it was an old school mate, one who he had not seen in years.

"Derek?" he asked. The man turned and chuckled in surprise.

"Johnny? Wow, it _is_ you! How long's it been?"

"Gavin's party, I reckon." John tilted his head and smirked as he attempted to recall their last meeting. "So what are you doing here? I thought you were going to America to paint the tycoons or whatever it is that you had up your sleeve."

"I did, but I eventually got beat out by photographers. Yanks don't know the worth of a good portrait these days," Derek laughed. The bartender put his ordered pint in front of him, which he grabbed, tipped towards John, and took a long drink. "Right now though, I'm just passing through. What about you?"

"Oh, working, existing. You know this is my hometown, right?"

The other man looked at him, one eyebrow arching high. "I remember you saying you lived on the banks of the Clyde, not Clyde_bank_."

"Bit embarrassed back then, I guess, about coming from working stock. I thought I could escape it, but here I am," John shrugged. He took another sip of his beer and chuckled. "I rivet things now."

"Aw, no…" Derek groaned. "Broke or the war?"

"Bit of both, to be honest. Not much money in children's books unless you're writing about rabbits in the Lake District. I'm planning on going back to it after the war, so being at this party while saving's a real treat. My wife doesn't mind much, which I guess is a plus."

"Married? That's nice," Derek nodded. He lifted his glass, only to pause and put it back down again. "Hey, not to judge, but it wasn't that girl from Gavin's shindig, was it? What was her name?"

"No, and your guess is as good as mine, not that I'm proud of that fact," John replied, the tips of his ears going red. He downed the rest of his beer and ordered another. "Actually, the only thing about them that's the same is they're both English. Younger than me, but both very English." He nodded exaggeratedly at the last bit, the red from his ears spreading to his face.

"You always had a weakness for English girls though," Derek chuckled. "Kids?"

"No. You? Did you ever come back and whisk Ingrid from Ceramics away and keep her large with child to repopulate the Highlands like you swore you would or are you still wallowing in bachelorhood?"

"Married Ingrid, but we only have one kid. They're in Seattle, over in America, right now—the place I can say is just about as miserable as this dump when it comes to the weather."

"Dreich that way, eh? That's good to know," John laughed. As he took his new beer from the bartender, Clara nearly stumbled out of the crowd and came up to him from behind, wrapping her arms around him loosely at the shoulders. He did not visibly register the contact while she leaned into him and kissed him down his neck, fairly drunk in her own right. Derek stared, not exactly knowing what to make of what he was seeing.

"So, John… you said your wife's English?" he asked uneasily.

"Oh, yeah, that's why we're here." John drank a little bit and motioned towards the main of the pub, with the crowded dance floor and the band hovering over them on their little dais. "The English… you know they're all so _curious_ about what we Scots do it's sort of sad. She was fine spending Christmas cuddled up on the couch and all, but one whiff of Hogmanay and it's like I told her unicorns exist."

"At least she's willing to… _indulge_ in another culture," Derek said. He tried not to look at the pretty young woman chewing up his old uni mate's neck and tried to figure out how to address it. "So… you and your wife have a good relationship?"

"Of course; we've got our differences, but we try to work on them like anyone. She's real understanding, or at least tries to be. I know every man likes to claim they were lucky in their match, but I'm willing to fight them all for bragging rights."

"So she's _fine_ with everything?"

"Well, not _everything_…"

"…like…?"

"My birthday, for one; she likes it and I don't. She can't stand whiskey, so I don't really keep any of the stuff around unless it's for a special occasion. Oh, and I had to replace the stove because of her—apparently wood stoves for cooking put you back in the Medieval times or something like that, even if you buy coal for it instead."

"I see," Derek said. He debated for a split second before pointing at Clara and gnawing on his thumbnail. "I just… even back in school I never took you as a ladies man, yet somehow you've become a magnet in the past twenty years."

John took a moment to process his friend's words before nearly spitting out his beer in a laugh. "Oh, no, I'm sorry," he said casually. "Let me introduce you to Clara, my wife. Clara, this is Derek. We used to run together at university."

"Hello; it's a pleasure," Clara smiled. She took one of her hands off John and extended it towards Derek. He shook her hand nervously, his face twitching in confusion.

"The pleasure's all mine, Mrs. Smith."

Clara let her hand drop back down as she placed a kiss behind John's ear and exhaled heavily. "I'm going to go find Collette and then we're going to dance."

"You and me or you and Collette?" John asked. Clara paused, thinking.

"…me and Collette."

"I'm not stopping you." John chuckled as his wife left with a playful snarl, disappearing into the crowd. He turned back to his friend and leaned into the bar. "So where are you headed, since you just say you're passing through?"

"That was your _wife_?!" Derek gasped, wide-eyed and half in-shock.

"Aye, we married in April," John nodded slowly. "She's a real treat, let me tell you. Didn't think it'd happen before her. Good things come if you give them time and she was definitely worth the time. Who did you think she was?"

"To be honest…? I'm not sure."

"We get that a lot; don't fret over it. She's a go-between for Blitz evacuees—that's how we met."

"You house Blitz evacuees?" Derek's jaw sat a bit slack, not sure how to reconcile the man before him with the one he remembered from their youth, now a belligerent ghost compared to the grounded and almost soft-tempered being that shrugged back.

"No, she takes care of the little pudding-brains… _I_ just happened to meet her here after work one day. Hey, listen, you got a place to stay yet? We've got a spare room…"

"Oh, no, I couldn't impose…"

"Nonsense," John said, clapping a hand on Derek's shoulder. "You're an old pal—we'd do the same for anyone. Now tell me about Ingrid. How's she liking America?"

After hours more of talking, drinking, eating, and even some singing and dancing, the sun began to rise and the pub owners started to turn patrons out onto the streets. Derek, honestly having nowhere else to go, accompanied his old school mate and his young wife back to their house, him and John both a bit too drunk for their own good. Clara, on the other hand, seemed to have sobered up slightly over the course of the night, ushering both men home easily.

Once he had emptied his bladder in the downstairs powder room, Derek stumbled back into the hall, looking for where his hosts had gone. He hobbled his way further into the house and up the stairs, only to find his old school mate getting felt up in the middle of the hallway. The couple noticed him and quickly parted, with John disappearing into one room and Clara opening up the door across and up the way.

"Here's the bed," she said pleasantly—_too_ pleasantly for the early hour. Derek entered the room and placed his side-bag down at the foot of the bed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Smith."

"Please, call me Clara."

"Thank you… Clara." Derek stared at her, wondering what was going to happen next. She walked right past him to open a heavy trunk sitting underneath a windowsill. A thick bedspread came out and she covered the blanket already on the bed with it.

"It gets a bit cold in this room," she explained. Clara circled back around the bed and made the turn a bit too sharply. She stumbled into him, clearly not yet free from the effects of alcohol either. As he caught her, Derek could feel the warmth of her face through his shirt as she remained in his arms, reorienting herself. Had she not been thinking where she was going? Did it have to do with her being English, not used to the malts Scots pounded back with ease, or her youth allowing her to misjudge her limit? She finally pushed back and thanked him, unable to stand completely still. Swallowing hard, he nodded in reply as he watched her leave the room, her hips swaying a little too much to be deliberate. Derek peered out into the hallway and made sure she arrived at the door at the far end of the hall. She stumbled into it and shut the door behind her, which was soon followed by a shrill giggle and the strained creaking of a mattress. Derek ducked back into the guest room and closed his door quickly, thankful that the sounds were muffled. Before his brain caught up with his body, he found himself crossing the room and flopping down into the soft bed.

Hours passed, although they only felt like minutes, and Derek rolled back out of the bed, nearly landing on the floor. He shuffled to the bathroom with his head pounding, wincing at every little sound he heard. The light pouring in through the windows stung his eyes as he stumbled his way back downstairs. He made for the kitchen to see about a glass of water, only to be taken aback as he saw Clara milling about happily.

"Oh, good, you're up," she said when she saw him. "Take a seat; hope you like porridge alright."

"Yeah… yeah, that's fine. Thank you," Derek replied, his mouth dry. He sat down at the table and watched Clara as she put two bowls of porridge on the table, along with some toast and jam. She sat down across from him and motioned at the toast.

"Go on. Eat up."

"O-Okay, Clara," he said. It felt odd to him, sitting across the table from a woman he did not know that time the day before, let alone one so young, and wondered where John was.

They sat and ate in silence for a while, the only sounds being made involving dishes and eating. Eventually Clara broke the silence with "So, where abouts are you headed?"

"To visit my sister and mam in Killiecrankie. It's a bit hard traveling around during Hogmanay, so I…" Derek stopped when he noticed Clara snickering into her tea. "I'm sorry, but what did I say?"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry—it's just that I still find some of these names a bit giggle-worthy," she apologized. "I think I've even _sent_ kids to Killiecrankie, or at least sent soliciting letters there."

"So if I run into some brats that definitely don't sound like they belong, I shouldn't worry?"

"_Children_, not brats," Clara insisted. She ate a spoonful of porridge and glared at the man across the table. "Do _you_ have children, Derek?"

"O-one: a son. He's fifteen and back home with my wife. Why?"

"Hmm; usually fathers are less likely to refer to other people's children as brats before meeting them, is all." Clara took a bite of toast and shrugged.

"What does, um, John refer to children as?" he asked.

"Pudding brains and wee rascals, mostly, but always in jest," she replied. "He wants to be a dad, and he will be, just not now… not when there's so much work to be done."

"Don't you think that's a bit mean, keeping that from him? If he wants to be a dad, he should be able to be a dad."

"When the time's right," Clara said, now irritated. She straightened her back and let her face harden, her steadfastness in the matter on display. "For now, there's work to be done."

"You mean _your_ work."

"No, I mean _war_ work—in case you haven't noticed thanks to your cozy American life, there _is_ one of those going on right now." She pursed her lips as she stirred her porridge, cooling it slightly. "Besides, I want John to be able to support a family doing what he loves and if we have a child now, then, well he may never go back to illustrating even though it's what he's meant to do."

"Johnny working on ships for the rest of his life because of a kid," Derek scoffed. "I don't see it."

"I do. Steady money is food in a child's mouth. You're a father too… wouldn't you do the same for your son?"

"Yes, but…"

"Okay then," Clara said curtly, cutting Derek off. She went back to her porridge and ignored the man in front of her.

A couple silent minutes passed and heavy footfalls could be heard up above. Clara stood up and began to rummage through a cupboard, producing a bowl that she began to ladle more porridge into. John trudged into the kitchen and allowed himself to collapse into the now-empty chair; his eyes were open just barely enough to see and it looked like he too had been hit a little harder by drink than he had hoped. He wrapped an arm around his wife as she slid into his lap, as there were only two chairs, placing the new bowl in front of him.

"Here you are," she said gently. John winced and slowly kissed her cheekbone.

"Please, not so loud. I'm right here."

"I'm not shouting," Clara said. She continued eating, acting as nothing was out of the ordinary.

"You too, huh?" Derek asked. John opened his eyes a bit more and looked at his friend across the table. "Can't hold it like I used to."

"Good thing we've got such a sweet lass to look after us then, eh?" John laughed weakly. They all ate silently until Clara finished, getting up from John's lap and putting her bowl in the sink.

"Clear your dishes and I'll take care of them when I get back," she said. "I have to pop over to the kids right quick and see how they're doing. I know Mr. Greene _said_ he would watch them, but that doesn't mean he's doing a very good job."

John nodded, his eyes closed again. "Am I making dinner?"

"No, just wait until I get home, okay?" Clara walked back over to her husband and kissed the top of his head, giving his far shoulder a pat as well. "See you in a little bit. Derek, you are staying aren't you?"

"You've been more than generous… I couldn't…"

"Unless you were planning on walking to Killiecrankie I don't see you going anywhere today yet," she said. "Buses don't start back up again until tomorrow, so just relax until then. There's not that much time left in the day anyhow." The young woman flashed him a smile that ordered him to stay, which made him cringe a little.

"Alright then," Derek agreed. Clara's smile widened slightly as she let go of her husband and left. As soon as the front door closed, Derek let out a sigh of relief. "She sure is spirited."

"You asked about kids, didn't you?" John muttered into his porridge. Derek grunted in reply. "Yeah, she gets testy about that. Not everyone understands, you know?" He paused. "Oh, you sober enough for a movie? I got some silents hanging around."

"You _still_ on hoarding films? I thought that's what the cinema was for," Derek chuckled.

"Oh… better here than walking out in the cold to see depressing news reels. I got Chaplin… _Hitchcock_…"

"…fine. You win, but you better pick something good. How many films you got, anyways?"

John thought for a moment. "Before I had a wife, I had film night with just me and whichever new reel I could get my hands on." He paused and grinned hazily, remembering something private and pleasant. "Now I have film night with my wife, but it's less often I buy something new to stave boredom."

The two men quickly finished off their late breakfast and put their dishes in the sink along with Clara's. Afterwards they shuffled around the furniture in the sitting room and John brought the projector down from the attic along with some reels. They were able to get through nearly two movies before Clara came home to find her husband stretched out on the couch and their guest content in an armchair.

"You two look like you're having fun," she chuckled as she pulled off her coat in the entrance to the sitting room. "Think you might be able to brave a sound picture after this one?"

"I think so," John smiled. He craned his neck and looked over at Derek. "What do you say?"

"I'm sober enough if you are," he smirked. "Why don't you pick, Clara?"

"Sure thing." She vanished back into the hall and returned after the movie ended. John took the reel canister from her and stood to switch the films out. He looked at the new label curiously.

"I was going to get rid of this one; you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Clara said as she sat herself down on the couch, facing the projector screen and propping her legs up. "I haven't seen it, and I was curious."

"What did you pick?" Derek asked, leaning forward to see Clara's face.

"Oh, that Garbo film about Mata Hari. I wasn't able to see it when it came out."

"Why couldn't you? Did they not have it in England for very long?" Derek asked.

"It's a film about an exotic dancer working as a spy and I was twelve," Clara answered brusquely. John snickered as Derek leaned back in his seat and grimaced uncomfortably. After finishing setting up the new reel and flicking the projector back on, John went and laid back down on the couch. Carefully, he positioned himself so that he covered Clara's legs and rested the back of his head on her midsection, scrunching his leftover leg length into a bit of couch technically too tiny for him.

During the movie, Derek left to go use the loo. When he came back he caught a glimpse of the Smiths on the couch, lounging comfortably together. Clara had one hand on John's chest and the other in his hair, petting him gently, while he had brought one of his arms up and over his torso so as to rest his hand on hers. They were both watching the film, though not intently, with John almost looking as if he was nodding off in his wife's embrace. Derek sat back down and continued on with the movie.

As the film progressed, Derek began to think about his hosts with increasing intensity. He felt odd, having known John for so long and then, after not seeing him for nearly two decades to the day, finding himself in the shelter of his home. Everything was as if the two men had not seen one another for two _years_ instead, from John's film fixation to the age of his new wife (which would have been more digestible an age gap had it been only two years, he was ready to admit). He almost expected to look back over at the couch to see his old classmate at twenty-nine again, with his hair in curls and dressed in the waistcoat and day cravat he was nearly always seen in those days. It was a little time capsule, aside from Greta Garbo talking and Derek's joints being achy from the cold, and it felt odd.

John had not changed. He had aged physically, yes, but as far as advancing his sensibilities to matched how he looked, that was a wash. The young woman in whose arms he was nestled was proof enough for that, Derek assured himself. Then again, he also knew his old mate to never do something that would go against a woman's wishes. Even twenty years ago the only two things that could make John back down were enough whiskey in his system and the will of a woman. It was not out of fear, but out of respect. What had Clara done to earn that level of respect, he wondered, and how long would it stay intact?

He didn't doubt the respect existed… actually it was quite the opposite. It was more a matter of why and how, especially considering John's wife was better daughter-in-law material for them at this age than anything. Artists didn't make money, nor did they do many things, such as tending the garden and keeping clean, as well as normal husbands. John wasn't even the sort to sculpt and build anything grander than a frame, making him potentially rubbish in home maintenance as far as Derek was concerned. He was bound to be more trouble than not, so why would someone so young and pretty and capable of wedding well bother hindering herself with such a chore of a husband? It did not make a terrible amount of sense, forcing him to edge closer towards the only idea left that would have made sense.

It was love. Johnny found it, even if it was in an unlikely place, during an unlikely time, and he didn't care what anyone thought. He was good at that… always had been, though it took Derek until then to realize it. The odd, special sort of care he had always displayed around factory men now made sense, given no one else in their group had come from such stock. Women were never conquests and were instead names with personalities… even the flighty bird he had shagged at Gavin's party. At least, she _had_ a name once and the loss of that was a notion clearly upsetting to John. It wouldn't have upset some of the other blokes they had run with, but it upset him enough to make him feel at least a modicum of regret (in the alcohol department, anyways). Stuff like that kept him different from everyone else and now it made sense as to why. They hadn't been best of mates back during school, but Derek was glad to know there was love in Johnny's match. It was better than some of their other classmates had done, which was something he knew as pure fact, and that was good enough for him.

After another night of creaky mattresses and muffled giggles, Derek left for the bus station with a new address for the book at home and a smile on his face. It was always good to know an old mate was doing well for himself, even if the manner in which he was didn't exactly match what was expected.

* * *

><p>AN: I can't say I've seen the 1931 Mata Hari film starring Greta Garbo, but I should, considering Ramon Novarro apparently had a thick accent and I like listening accents that differ from my own. Also it was made in pre-Hayes Code Hollywood, which is always an interesting grab-bag of goodies. There's a need for me to see Hitchcock silents as well, because Alfred Hitchcock and silents.


	19. February 1941

A/N: This chapter has yet to have the official seal of approval from the beta, so there may be slight alterations in the near future.

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><p><span>Chapter Nineteen<span>: _February 1941_

John grinned excitedly as he hopped off the bus, clutching his messenger bag tightly. It was packed to the brim with his marketplace finds—his very fortunate marketplace finds—which made him giddy beyond belief. He walked quickly in the dim starlight, trying not to rush home to his wife. He would have preferred if Clara had been able to accompany him to Edinburgh on his rare, wonderful Saturday off, but she still had her students to attend to. If anything she was certainly dutiful. In fact, she had yet to return home when he came back to the house, evidenced by the sitting room curtains remaining open. He went inside, drew the fabric shut, and switched on the lights to begin mucking about in the kitchen.

First John emptied his bag of its haul—five film reels. He set them on the table and chuckled privately. They had been a little more expensive than he had originally been willing to go for, but he could not resist. Of course a clearance sale meant that he would no longer be able to go back and buy more, so he had to strike while the pan was hot. Once he was sure all the titles were accounted for, he began to rummage through the kitchen cabinets for something to throw together for dinner. There wasn't much—just some dried noodles and tinned veg and Spam and a block of cheese—so he grabbed the noodles and cheese and began to make dinner. He was almost done when Clara walked in the door.

"I'm home!"

"Kitchen!" he replied. John heard Clara's shoes get kicked off into the wall with a groan as she walked through the house and flopped down into a chair at the table. Though his back was turned while he stirred cheese into the noodles, he could feel her stare at him critically.

"John, what are these?"

"My trusty Germanic source for films is immigrating to America," he replied with a grin. He then ladled up some cheese-noodles in two bowls and brought them over to the table, placing one in front of Clara as he sat down. "She closes up shop in two weeks and has been trying to get rid of all her extra prints."

"What all did you get?"

"Let's see…" John muttered, picking up the reels and reading off their names as he shoveled noodles in his mouth. "'Night Train to Munich', some of the guys at work recommended it; 'The Philadelphia Story', very American but I heard good things; 'Werewolf of London', which I missed back when it came out; and the last copies she had of both 'Pinocchio' and 'Fantasia'."

"_What_ is a 'Fantasia'?" Clara asked, an eyebrow raised in reluctant curiosity. John nearly had to double-take in surprise, straining to not choke on his food.

"You remember! The movie I said I wished we could have gotten that's art to music but probably wouldn't because of the war? Well, Romana had been able to get her hands on some previously-distributed prints and… well… this is incredible!"

"John, calm down," Clara sighed. "I know you're excited that you found some new movies, but are you sure Romana wasn't just trying to get rid of her prints to stay off the radar? Dealing in old and copied film stock is more than slightly illegal, you know. I'm sure she doesn't have it easy thanks to being both Irish _and_ German. Didn't she even change her hair and everything since the war's started?"

"I think that's partially why she's moving; she hears it's a little better over there, though I'm not sure about that. The Americans won't stay neutral for long—it's not in their blood." John thought for a moment before perking up. "Hey, do you think we can have another film night for the kids?"

"Maybe next month," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I've only got a handful for a while, and that sort of thing is better done with a full house." Clara watched as John gathered the canisters and, after flicking up his eyebrows with a playful grin, carried them out into the sitting room. The longer she prolonged him spoiling her students, the more likely he was to forget about it.

After coming back into the kitchen, he got himself another helping of food before sitting back down. "You know, the last time I brought movies over for the kids I just sort of showed up with the canister. If the other teachers help you out, there's a chance the lot of you can hold this over the little pudding brains' heads and make the entire school behave a bit better."

"…meaning we can bribe them," she frowned, unimpressed.

John pointed his fork at Clara. "Precisely. Yeah, it's a bribe, but it's also a genuine reward. Those kids didn't ask for this, none of this from the good to the bad, and I think maybe a little fun for them wouldn't hurt."

"So then this has nothing to do with testing your dad skills," Clara sniped playfully. She finished off her noodles and put the bowl in the sink to wash later, chuckling as she heard her husband scoff in insult.

"You make it sound like I've never minded a child in my life."

"John, you spent one half of summer growling at the kids and the other taking delight in scaring them out of their wits. Remember when you made them think the school was haunted and banged around a pot from the kitchens in the hall?"

"Hey, that was funny," he defended. "The one kid, he loved it."

"Yes, but the other twenty-six didn't. Then what about the time you went along with the class and me to the seaside?"

"That child _begged_ me to toss him; it's not my fault someone walked into the trajectory."

Clara rested her fists on her hips and tapped her foot as she frowned. "I don't care if the target was the sand or the tourist—you've been awful."

"Oh, come on Clara…" John groaned. His wife just shook her head and disappeared into the sitting room. Muttering to himself, he went and put his bowl in the sink and filled the cooking pot with water to set before following her. To his surprise, Clara had uncovered the projector stand from its spot tucked in the corner and was fiddling with one of his new reels, holding up the flim strip to the light so she could see the single frames.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked. "I'm trying to figure out which one to watch. Do you really think any of the parents would object to an Italian storybook character?"

"I don't know why they would and then go home to have pasta in their casseroles," John shrugged. He pulled the projector towards the middle of the room and began to shake the dust off the sheet that had been covering the device. "You know the suggestion that was made at your last staff meeting about the kids and putting them in homes around here while waiting on answers from the country? That'd screw them up more than just turning them loose in a field of heather."

"You just don't like the idea because you're not fond of anyone else within five miles of the front stoop save a small handful of people, and that's including the students," Clara quipped. She slid _Pinocchio_ onto the front projector spindle and sat lengthwise on the couch to stretch out her legs and smooth her skirt.

"I don't hate your students," John shrugged as he finished hanging the sheet on the curtains. He then made his way over to the projector and began feeding the film stock through the device. "I could probably handle them well in smaller numbers. Say next shipment you only get three or four…"

"John…" Clara warned, "_don't_ even **_think_** about it. They are _children_, not practice dolls."

"I'd more consider them a 'low-maintenance trial-run' of sorts," he chuckled, ignoring his wife's glare as he aligned the projector and fiddled with the focus on a still frame. "No nappies to worry about and we only have to keep the ones we like…"

He looked over at Clara and cringed at her eyes boring into him—fierce daggers that were ready to kill. After shutting off the lights, John flicked the projector back on and went to the couch to curl up atop his wife. He could not see her face soften as she attempted smoothing out his hair and pressed a kiss on the crown of his head.

"If we do ever need to house anyone, be it a day or two, I don't want to hear a single word about making the arrangement permanent, do you hear me?"

"I'll try," John said. He wrapped his arms around Clara and hugged her close, nuzzling the side of his face into her chest. "Clara…?"

"Yeah?"

"How many?"

"How many _what_, John?" She rolled her eyes and smirked, though she had a feeling she knew what he meant.

"Children… how many?"

"Let's get you out of that shipyard before we nail down any numbers, okay?" Clara scratched her husband's scalp as the final title card faded away and the film started properly. While the animated… _thing_ leapt across the screen (there was no way that looked like a _real_ cricket), Clara's face fell and she let her head fall to the side and lean up against the backrest. "Do you promise you won't bribe them?"

"My own children?" John chuckled sadly. "No."

"You won't scare them?"

"Not unless they enjoy frights."

"And no tossing them?"

"Only into the couch cushions." John dislodged a hand from underneath Clara and used it to hold one of hers, bringing it up to his lips to kiss. "At least two?"

"Hush; numbers later. Now we've got to sit through this malformed cricket chattering on. If this alone doesn't scare my students witless, I don't know what will."

"They're city dwellers—I bet they think cricket's just a game."

Sighing through a smile, Clara gave John a light tap on the back of the head to hush him. They lay silently and continued watching the movie, fingers entwined and breathing synced. Both tensed as the little puppet-boy was brought to life by the Blue Fairy, John by tightening his grip on his wife's waist and Clara by slowing the rate in which she played with her husband's hair. She had remembered reading the story once to children, long ago when she still lived in a room in London, so she knew it was coming, but whether or not he did was something she did not know.

She did not know, nor could she ask, because as soon as the film was over, John untangled himself from her and pressed a finger to her lips. _Wait right here_. Clara sat there and watched as he went to the projector to flick it off. He then turned back around, his eyes hazy and his smile lax, before coming back to lift her up into the air, arms around her waist and under her knees, and kiss her slowly. She draped her arms around his neck and returned the affection, gently tugging at his hair as he carried her out of the room and towards the stairs—dinner cleanup was going to have to wait until later.

* * *

><p>AN: I can personally rec all the mentioned films other than _Night Train_, and that is on my to-watch list. If you have not figured it out by now, John is a film nerd because I am a film nerd (uni major, holla). I apologize… sort of… except not really.


	20. Early March 1941

A/N: Wow... twenty chapters already. My how time flies.

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><p><span>Chapter Twenty<span>: _Early March 1941_

Clara frowned worriedly the entire walk home. She had tried avoiding it with all her might, but her hands would soon be tied. Locked inside her office were fifteen train tickets for the next day, and she had seventeen students. It was inevitability crashing down on her and she didn't like it one bit.

A nervous flit in her stomach kept her overthinking all the way home—it would be more convenient to watch over them in her own home, for sure, but there was the matter of her husband and how she did not trust him. Well, she _could_ trust him with a low John-to-child ratio, especially the children that were in-question. What she did not trust were his paternal instincts that were becoming increasingly difficult to squelch. Keeping him away from the school helped, but it also seemed to make him worse in a way. It was subtle, but Clara could tell that kisses on her stomach were beginning to linger longer than others and his gaze occasionally became wistful and far-reaching. Their agreement was torturing him, she could tell, yet he barely said a word.

'_It's a treat for both sides_,' she assured herself as she entered the house. Clara drew the curtains and began to work in the kitchen, putting together dinner. '_They deserve a home, no matter how temporary, and he wants to play at being a dad, because he doesn't know how long it will take before it no longer has to be pretend. Their train goes out the nineteenth… I can do this._'

By the time John came home from work, dinner was done and Clara was just setting their plates down on the table.

"Ah, there you are," he said, face attempting to perk up from what had looked like a bad day. He bent down and kissed her neck from behind, hands trailing along her hips and midsection. "How was work?"

"Full of surprises. What about your day?"

"Some kids got into a fight during lunch and now the higher-ups are going to be watching us on the floor for two weeks," John groaned. He let go of his wife and sat down at the table, ladling himself some potatoes and sprouts. "No one's going to be relaxed while on-shift until they're gone."

"Sounds to me like Verity will be more sour than usual," Clara giggled. The corner of John's mouth twisted up as she said that, nodding in agreement.

"Something happens to Will, not that I want something to mind you, she's going to get his spot, and I hope I am nowhere near the yards when that happens."

"Really…? I know you've said she's good at her job, but doesn't that sort of thing involve overall knowledge?"

"…which she has. Verity's been working there a lot longer than I have, and it's sort of frightening." John shuffled around some sprouts on his plate and sighed. "Enough about that, though. What's going on in the exciting world of scraped knees and pulled braids?"

"A dilemma, actually… one that I'm hoping you can help me with," Clara said through a mouthful of food. Her husband raised his eyebrow from across the table, curious.

"You make it sound so serious," he said. "Go on."

"I was wondering if, provided it was alright with you, we could host a couple of the kids from the school for a while. I put all but two on a train tomorrow, and they won't have anywhere to go until a week from Wednesday."

"They can stay as long as they want," John smiled. "Who are we getting?"

"Sisters, Gwen and Ruby Miller. I've had trouble placing them and I want them to keep their spirits up while they're waiting."

"I won't mind at all." His voice grew a bit higher, betraying a calm exterior and revealing poorly-hidden delight. "Should I make up the guest room for them?"

"I'll make it; the last thing I need is you getting overexcited."

"…but they're kids, Clara…"

"…kids who have a mother in London waiting for them to write her from a stately Scottish home where they are completely free from danger," Clara nearly snapped. She caught herself and cleared her throat, taking a drink of water before shaking her head slowly. "It's still dangerous here, John. Nice try."

"Can't blame a man for trying," he chuckled. "What sort of things do they like? Do they like drawing or football or films or oh… they're not old enough to like boys yet are they?"

"No John, Gwen is nine and Ruby is seven; they came up here because it was stay together in Scotland or split between Devon and York. Boys won't happen for at least another couple of years." Clara sighed. "You're going to be that father, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"The hoovering, overprotective, intimidating, yet intensely proud father, aren't you?"

"Can't blame me for that either," John shrugged. As he took another forkful of potatoes, he lifted his foot and ran it under one of Clara's calves. She looked at him, only halfway amused, and continued eating.

* * *

><p>"What are you so happy about, John?" Verity asked as she watched her coworker saunter up to his locker after the end of their shift. His grin was wider than usual, which was saying something considering how it had already grown exponentially within the past year. The older man put his hard hat in the locker and began taking off his coveralls.<p>

"We're getting to host a couple children from London for a time starting tonight," John beamed. "They're the last of their group, and won't have another place to go for nearly a fortnight. I've got until then to convince Clara to keep them."

"John, they're children, not cats," Verity sighed. "So what, you're going to get to pretend you have the sons you thought you missed out on for the next week and a half?"

"I don't know of many lads named Gwen and Ruby, so no." John chuckled and stuffed his coveralls in his locker while taking out his flatcap. He took something out of the hat and quickly placed it in his jacket before putting both items on.

"John, what was that?"

"What was what?"

"Whatever it was you just put in your pocket. _John_…"

Trying to contain himself, John shoved his hand in his jacket pocket and quickly flashed Verity a corner of the candy bar that was in it. The woman inhaled sharply and looked around, making sure no one else saw.

"_Where did you get that_?" she hissed. "No one's actively carried chocolate in ages, and I _know_ you don't keep your ration booklet on you."

"There's a shop up the road, if you know how to ask; the clerk owes me more than a few favors."

"…and you're cashing them in for children that aren't even your own?"

"It's just one favor… and yeah. I'll see you Monday, Verity. Say hi to Gorman and the kids for me."

With a knowing wink, John turned around and left work, not caring that Verity was decidedly dumbstruck at his blind devotion. He hummed happily all the way home, trying not to hold onto the chocolate bar long enough to melt it. A distant rumble of thunder rolled on by as he went through the gate of his house and approached the front door.

"Clara, dear, I'm home," he called out as he entered the house and closed the door. John put his jacket and cap on their hooks in the foyer as Clara came to greet him with a kiss.

"Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Gwen and Ruby are upstairs in the guest room if you want to introduce yourself."

"I'd be glad to." John waited until Clara was out of sight before he took off his boots, putting them neatly next to the two pairs of unfamiliar shoes, and slid the candy bar in his trouser pocket. He then went upstairs and knocked on the guest room door.

"You can come in, Mrs. Smith!" answered a tiny voice.

"It's Mr. Smith. Am I still allowed in?" John chuckled. He heard footsteps bound up towards the door; it creaked open and a dark head of tight curls gazed at him through the slit.

"You're Mr. Smith?"

"Yes I am. I was wondering if I could meet you and your sister before dinner, since I'm now home from work for the weekend."

The little girl ran away from the door, leaving it open. John walked in and found the sisters sitting on the bed with one of his books in front of them. They wore matching blue dresses and had the same eggshell-brown skin. Both of the girls' hair was very curly, with the elder's a dark brown and the younger's a reddish color.

"You must be Gwen and Ruby," John smiled. He sat down at the end of the bed, careful not to sit on the chocolate bar. "I must say, Mrs. Smith didn't warn me about you two properly."

The girls looked nervous. "W-why's that, sir?" Gwen, the elder, asked.

"You seem much more pleasant than I thought you'd be," John replied.

"Yeah, well you're _older_ than I thought you'd be," Ruby said. Gwen slapped a hand over her sister's mouth in a panic.

"I'm sorry, sir! She didn't mean it!"

"No, I think she did," John nodded. "She's right though: I am old enough to be your granddad and Mrs. Smith could be your young auntie. We are not your normal married couple." He paused for a moment, letting them digest the situation before continuing. "Here, I got you something, but you're going to have to promise you'll share." John then pulled the chocolate bar out of his pocket and held it out. Both girls' eyes went wide at the present, which Ruby took and held reverently. It was oversized in her tiny hands, which, her host imagined, made it look to be more than a month's worth to them.

"Wow… we haven't even _seen_ chocolate in a long time," Gwen said, less dumbfounded than her amazed sister. "Thank you, Mr. Smith."

"You're welcome. Now, you both are going to need to let me know what you like to do for fun so that we can plan our weekend accordingly. Guests in my house are never here to be sad."

The girls' faces lit up.

"I like reading stories!" Gwen announced. "Reading and going to the river and playing tag and climbing trees!"

"Yeah! And I like drawing! And kittens!" Ruby gasped. John chuckled.

"So you like reading and you like drawing? Then you've come to the right place. What book do you have there?"

"Um… '_Mary's Magic Muffler_'," Gwen replied.

"Oh, good, that's a favorite of mine," John said. "I wrote that in a weekend, about eight years ago now, after watching a young lady about your age nearly lose her scarf in a fierce wind in a park."

"You wrote '_Mary's Magic Muffler_'…?" Ruby asked, awestruck.

"I wrote all those books," John said. He motioned to the bookcase in the corner, one shelf of which he had been sure to fill with the children's books he had illustrated. "All the ones from that particular shelf anyway."

"We're not stupid, Mr. Smith," Gwen frowned. "There are lots of John Smiths, and Mrs. Smith said you work building ships."

"Adults all put on a different hat during times of trouble. Come with me." John held out his hand towards the girls; Gwen reluctantly took it, grabbing hold of her sister with the other. He stood up and led them out of the room, down the hall to a door that had been shut.

"Mrs. Smith told us not to go in this room, that it was off-limits," Ruby said.

"…and that is very good of you to remember her words, but it's okay," John said. He opened up the door and brought the girls in; it was his studio where he kept all his artwork from his books, some of which were laying around haphazardly in the open. Gwen let go of his hand and Ruby peeked out from behind her sister. The girls looked around, careful to not touch anything.

"So… you really are the John Smith that wrote '_Mary's Magic Muffler_'…!" Gwen said. "You did write all those books!"

"I wouldn't lie about that," John smirked. He sat down on the floor and watched the sisters as they marveled at the large illustrations they were used to seeing in their picture books. It took until Clara found them later, Ruby in John's lap as he sketched the posing Gwen, did they realize the time.

"I've been calling you three for dinner!" Clara frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Mr. Smith is sketching Gwen, 'cause he says she's pretty!" Ruby exclaimed. Clara rolled her eyes and groaned.

"Well, dinner's getting cold; get a move on," Clara said. The girls ran out of the room and down the stairs, laughing excitedly.

"Wait! Girls! Mr. Smith's old bones are stuck!" John shouted after them. Clara sighed and held out her hand, allowing her husband a boost up.

"A fortnight. They won't even be here a fortnight."

"I know, dearest."

"They already have a mum, and an older brother."

"I know." John kissed Clara behind the ear and gave her a small grin. "It could be a while before I am father-fit, so I need the practice. I'm at a disadvantage, you know."

"What you need is to go down to dinner, now shoo," Clara said, playfully shoving him towards the door. John complied happily; she was right, after all.


	21. Saturday

A/N: You guys have no idea how much I've been wanting to get to Gwen and Ruby. They're adorable and have been bopping around in this story since August.

Shameless Plug: I've got another AU in the works, _In Want of An Hei_r, that's a three-part nobility/arranged marriage Whouffaldi AU. If that sounds like your cup of tea, the first chapter's up!

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><p><span>Chapter Twenty-One<span>: _Saturday_

The following morning brought with it rain that came down in torrents, trapping the inhabitants of 12 Wissforn Road indoors. For John and Clara, it meant that they went straight to the couch to read and cuddle after breakfast… but for their tiny guests, however…

"This place is cool," Ruby said as she stood on a chair looking at old photos on the wall. "Do you know when this house was built, Mr. Smith?"

"Oh, a couple hundred years ago, if you can imagine," John chuckled. "It was my grandmother's grandfather who built it."

"…and you're old, so that must make this place _ancient_."

"Ruby, be nice…" Clara warned. The little girl sighed and continued looking at the photographs.

"Where was this taken?" she asked. "It kind of looks like the photos in the halls in our flat block."

"Oh…" John disentangled himself from Clara and put down his book, going over to look at the photo Ruby was pointing at. "That was on a bridge by Parliament Hall. I was a wee lad then, on holiday with my granny."

"You don't look very 'wee'," Ruby said. "You almost look as old as our brother!"

John chuckled at that. "Oh really now? Well, I was seventeen that trip. How old is your brother?"

"Uh… GWEN? HOW OLD IS RUPERT?"

"You don't need to shout," Gwen grumbled as she walked into the sitting room. She sat down importantly in the easy chair closest to the front window and smoothed out her skirt before curling up with one of John's books. "Rupert is twenty-five."

"Okay! He's twenty-five!" Ruby smiled.

"That's a little far away from seventeen," John laughed. He looked over at Clara and smirked. "Twenty-five… I've got mates whose sons are twenty-five."

"…and you're married to a twenty-two year old. You could have fathered us _all_." Clara smiled in satisfaction as John frowned at that, not even snapping out of it when Ruby hopped up onto his back.

"So you could be our dad?" Ruby asked. She climbed further up and sat on John's shoulders, reaching for the ceiling. "I'd like if you were our dad."

"No… your dad is your dad," John said, looking up at the girl as he held her shins in place for balance. "Don't you have one?"

"Ruby," Gwen hissed. "Stop it."

"Come on… aren't you sick of Rupert pretending to do dad stuff? We didn't even have the same dad as he did…"

"_Ruby, __**stop**_."

"Now girls, don't fight," John scolded softly. "I can't be your dad since if I was your dad then Mrs. Smith would have to be your mam. You already have a mam, and she loves you very much, and I don't think she'd take kindly to some strange couple keeping you from her. Now tell me, what does your brother do?" John sat back down on the couch and let Ruby tumble off his shoulders into the cushion between him and Clara.

"He's a soldier," the girl said, folded up on her back and staring at the ceiling. "Before that he drove a truck somewhere. I forget. But no matter what he's always '_clean your room_' and '_eat your veg_' and telling us we can't play football in the flat."

"Always telling _you_ that you can't play football in the flat," Gwen chimed in. Ruby stuck her tongue out at her sister and scowled.

"Well, I have to agree with Rupert that it's probably not a good idea to play football in a flat," John sighed. He sat Ruby upright, only for her to drape herself in overdramatic boredom across his lap. "However, if your mam says you have to listen to your brother you probably should. He takes care of you, right?"

"Yeah… I guess," Ruby whined. "Still rather have a real dad though."

John paused for a moment, looking at Clara out of the corner of his eye. She did not seem to be bothered by the conversation and took that as permission to go ahead. "Does your dad not stay with you?"

"Our dad's in the Army, like our brother, but he went to India before the war and didn't come back. He's probably dead or something."

"**_Ruby_**…" Gwen snapped, her eyes threatening to cry.

"Well, it's true!" Ruby scoffed, craning her neck to look at her sister. "And no one cares because something or other and Mum's good at looking after us because she had to look after her and Rupert when _his_ dad died. I'm _seven_, not _stupid_."

"Alright, that's enough of that," Clara said, snapping her book shut. "Girls, behave yourselves while I talk with Mr. Smith in the kitchen."

"Okay…" Gwen and Ruby sighed in chorus. Ruby rolled off of John's lap onto the floor and made her way over towards the large radio box, poking at the heavy knobs. Clara pulled her husband into the kitchen and sat him down at the table, smacking the back of his head.

"Ow, what was that for…?!" John whispered. Clara narrowed her eyes and huffed angrily.

"You are _not_ their dad, you will never _be_ their dad, and you need to _stop getting attached to them_. You are horrible!"

"Clara, I'm just making conversation!"

"Do you want to know how long I've had Gwen and Ruby?" Clara asked. John stared at her, not replying. "I've had them for over three months. Most kids, even working class kids, are able to get homes in one, maybe two. Not Gwen and Ruby. They're looking for someone to get attached to who will keep them, whether they realize it or not. There's an estate up in the Highlands that is willing to finally take them both in, but only once they've cleared the space necessary to keep them. Not next week, but the week after. Don't encourage them in the meantime."

"I'm not _trying_ to be their dad. I just…"

"You just what?"

"I just want to know a bit more about them. No matter what they're still guests in my house."

"_Our_ house."

"That _I_ inherited, thank you. You've had them at the school for over three months and you haven't even asked them about their family?"

Clara sat down and sighed. "I've written their mum to let her know the progress, and she's written back. She worries about all three of her children a lot. It was actually all Rupert could do to convince her to let him join the Army and put the girls on a train up here after Christmas."

"He sounds like a smart young man."

"Real smart, from the way their mum goes on. She's worried he'll get himself killed like his stepdad, or die of the flu like his dad did, and never get the chance to amount to anything. She worries that her daughters will be split up like they would have if they'd gone to the English countryside with the rest of their classmates, and she didn't trust the people sending children into Wales. We owe it to her to not make this any more difficult than it already is."

John slowly nodded, but ended with a small smile. "There are children in the house for the first time in years. A year ago we hadn't even shared a bed but now we're married, there's _children_, even if they aren't our children, and I'm so happy, Clara. The _house_ is happy. Can't you feel it?"

She blinked at him and raised an eyebrow. "The house? Now you're talking to the house? It's bad enough you're afraid of your family's ghosts but the house talking?"

"You stop calling the kilt a skirt and maybe I'll rest easier at night. There are people who take offense to that, you know," John replied, as if it was an argument they had fifteen times by then. His wife groaned and slouched in her chair.

"The nineteenth, one o'clock, Glasgow Queen Street to Aberdeen."

"Which means…?" He raised his eyebrows, curious.

"…which means you've got until twelve-fifty-nine on the nineteenth," Clara said. She held back a frown as she saw her husband perk up. "Don't think this is me wanting to have kids sooner by trying some out now; this is to _stave_ _off_ being a dad, not quicken it."

"Oh, of course, dearest," he grinned. John quickly stood back up and kissed her hair before going back into the sitting room, where Gwen was finishing her book and Ruby was moving her curiosity towards the back of the radio.

"Hey girls, it looks like the rain might be letting up for a little while. What do you say we go down to the river and take a look around? Did you bring galoshes?"

"Uh… no…?" Gwen said, pondering her answer. "I don't think we did."

"That's fine—I still think I've got some from when I was a lad knocking about. What do you say?"

"Yeah!" the girl cheered, jumping up from their seat and running to the door to get their coats. John turned around and saw Clara leaning on the doorframe between the kitchen and sitting room.

"Be careful," she warned. He made his way over and kissed her, grinning.

"Back in a couple hours, Mam. Now where'd you put my umbrella?"


	22. 13 March 1941

A/N: Time to crack open the history books, everyone. I swear I did not plan things this way.

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><p><span>Chapter Twenty-Two<span>: _13 March 1941_

It was the following Thursday night and everything was quiet. Clara was sitting in the armchair closer to the kitchen, reading to herself, while John reclined on the couch reading '_Kittens Come Home_', his newest rough draft, aloud to Ruby. He had a "sudden burst of inspiration", having made a bunch of rough thumbnails after work while his guests watched and his wife rolled her eyes. The little girl had snuggled up in his side as he read while looking very sleepy. It had been raining off and on all week, making the weather good for keeping her lethargic.

"So what do you think, Ruby?" John asked as he finished. "Is my new story going to be a hit?"

"I think so, Mr. Smith," the girl murmured into his chest. "I like the part where the kittens go to visit their granddad and aunt after their adventure. It's nice."

"I'm glad. Hey, why don't you find your sister and get ready for bed?" He gave her a soft pat on the shoulder, trying to shake her awake. "One of us will be up to check on you in a bit."

"Okay, Mr. Smith," Ruby said. John gently took his arm from off her back and she rolled off the couch. After leaving him a kiss on the brow and giving her teacher a hug, she padded up the stairs and left the two adults alone.

"John," Clara sighed, not even looking up from her book. "I know that I agreed to let you do this, but you have to be careful."

"I am careful," he grumbled. "You said we have them for less than a fortnight."

"Yes, and I know you—before long you're going to start talking about not sending them to the estate in the Highlands," she frowned, closing her book in her lap. "You fell for them before you even met them and spoiling the girls now is going to do nothing to help anyone."

John sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. "We don't know the kind of home they're going to after this, or if they'll still be able to go back to their mam and brother after the war. Gwen and Ruby are just children and I want to make sure they can be that, at least for a little while. Whoever takes them will probably put them to work."

"Many people put their evacuees to work—they're called 'chores'."

"I know, but…"

"After the war, John. I know you're going to be a great dad, but after the war."

"Of course, dear," John replied. He smiled sadly as he stood up and made the few steps to lean down to kiss Clara on the cheek. She closed her eyes and touched her forehead to his; he was the one that had been the keenest on playing at parent, and she could see that he was only trying to do his best. They looked at one another momentarily, until a shrill scream from upstairs made them both jump.

"Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith!" Gwen screeched. She and Ruby ran down the stairs crying. "Mrs. Smith they're coming!"

"…who's coming?" Clara asked, confused. The girls just looked at her with wide, terrified eyes.

"Ruby turned off the light so we could open the window and we heard them! The airplanes!" Gwen panicked. John turned off the lamp in the sitting room and drew open the blackout curtain so that he could poke his head out the window.

The steady hum of bomber motors hung in the air, soon drowned out by a piercing air raid siren.

"Clara, get the girls in the cellar! Now!" John ordered, his face hard and voice stern. Clara jumped up from her seat and ushered the sisters through the hall and out the back of the house. In the rear garden there was a door to a root cellar, separate from the house, which she threw open and let the girls inside. She looked up at the sky; there was nothing to be seen in the cloudy night. Clara gasped in fright as John came up behind her and shoved her urgently towards the steps. She stumbled to the dirt floor and was plunged into total darkness as he closed the door and bolted it.

"Gwen? Ruby? Where are you?" she asked the darkness. She suddenly felt their tiny hands grab onto her, shaking from the rumbling bombs and the chilled air. Clara bent down and put her arms around the girls in an effort to stay calm as the room shook slightly.

"Mrs. Smith, I'm scared," Ruby cried.

"I know, sweetie. I am too. John?"

"Right here, dear." John fumbled around and found a torch, which he turned on and surveyed the cellar. It was only the size of a bedroom, with stone walls and wooden trusses and shelves and old bits and bobs scattered about. In the corner was a large metal box, the sight of which caused him to breathe a sigh of relief. "Good; I did remember to bring it down."

"Bring what?" Clara asked. John held the torch under his arm as he opened the box and took out a tin of beans.

"Emergency rations. This should last us more than a few days if need be."

"When did you bring those down here?" Clara wondered. She sat down on the floor with Gwen and Ruby and shuddered as a low rumbling rattled the room.

"Back at the start of the war—all this stuff is good for another few years, minimum." He knelt down and kissed his wife on the forehead. Her teeth were chattering and she was shivering all over. "Don't worry. This place is carved from bedrock. This dirt floor is only a few inches thick, but there's nothing but rock below and rock and lots more dirt above; nothing can get us down here."

"W-what is this place?" Gwen asked. John brushed some hair out of her face and smiled gently at her.

"My granny's granddad built my house a very long time ago, before things like iceboxes and air refrigeration had been invented. They needed this place to keep food cold and fresh during the summer. I remember coming down here when I was smaller than you to get Granny some potatoes."

Another blast rumbled above them, forcing John to put his hand on the wall to brace himself. Ruby flung herself into his side and continued crying.

"Aren't you scared, Mr. Smith?" she sniffled. John picked the girl up and sat down next to Clara, putting one arm around Ruby and one around his wife.

"Long ago I was a soldier fighting a war much like this one," he said calmly. "I was young then, a little younger than your brother is now, and I thought I was very brave for going."

"Weren't you?" Ruby asked.

"No. I was very reckless; there's a difference. To make a very long and very scary story short: I learned a few things as a soldier. One of them was how to control your fears so that they don't control you. They either become your greatest strength or your worst enemy. Your brother will learn that too, and I can only hope he uses that to his advantage."

"So, you're never scared?"

"Ach, no, I'm scared all the time," he replied, shaking his head. "Things like this though, I can control much better than others because I have already lived it once or twice. Now I think what you girls should be doing is getting some sleep. Come."

John stood up and walked over to the wooden shelves, where there was a thin camping mattress along with a dusty pillow and blanket. He shook them all out and replaced them back on the shelf. Gwen and Ruby laid down and huddled close as John drew the blanket up over them. The rumbling grew louder as he walked back to Clara and sat down, allowing her to crawl into his lap and wrap his arms around her.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't let go."

"I never planned on it." John picked the torch up from off the ground and raised his voice. "I'm turning off the light now. We don't know how long we'll need it."

"Okay…" came the unified response of the sisters. John flicked the torch off and put it down. The outside rumbled again.

"You girls doing okay?"

"Yes Mr. Smith."

"Good. If you need us, we're right on the other side of the room. Remember that stone is strong. Good night." The bombs continued to gently shake the room and the sirens and engines whirred outside, filling the silence with sickening dread.

"John that was a nice speech and all, but how are _we_ supposed to weather this?" Clara whimpered into his neck. John pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head as he felt the earth beneath him rumble softly again.

"With each other," he replied. "Gwen and Ruby have one another, and they always will. You and I have one another; it's better than where we were at even this time last year, wouldn't you agree?"

Clara nodded quietly and shivered in her husband's arms. John let go of her long enough to take off his jumper and slide it over her head, surrounding her in knit warmth. They curled up together and attempted to find sleep.

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><p>AN: I do apologize for the lack of first-hand knowledge (as well as any sort of general research) on the prevailing geological strata in and around the Glasgow-Clydebank area, but for the sake of story I am using a model of glaciated bedrock capped by about eighteen inches of topsoil deposits. Whether this _is_ the regional prevailing strata or not, I do not know nor do I think many people care, but I need to mention it because I don't know where anyone lives and it would be my luck that I'd have an actual Clydebank resident amongst the readership trying to call my bluff. Again, apologies.


	23. 14 March 1941

A/N: Sorry about leaving things off right here, but the editor and I will be taking a break in updating on Friday. Have a Merry Christmas, or even just a good rest of the week, and we'll see you on the 30th!

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><p><span>Chapter Twenty-Three<span>: _14 March 1941_

Clara woke up to John gently moving her arm from his side and placing Ruby next to her. During the night, the girls had managed to make their way back over to them, with Gwen finding Clara's lap and Ruby clinging to John. She glanced around and saw that her husband was headed towards the staircase. Standing up, she walked over to the bottom step to watch as he unbolted the door and tried to move the heavy wooden boards to no avail.

"Is it stuck?" she asked. He looked down at her and frowned.

"Something must have landed on top of it," he replied, sitting down on a step. "It looks like we're stuck until whatever it is gets removed."

"Does anyone know we're down here?" Clara sat down next to John and let him put his arm around her, thankful that the door had slits and holes enough to allow a little morning light to filter in.

"Everyone on the street has these cellars, just about," he shrugged. "When they don't find us in the house, or parts of us depending on how the house is, they'll be looking for us here."

"Are you sure?"

"Eunice from number ten rode out nearly the entirety of the First World War in the cellar of number twenty-one out of sheer paranoia, if I'm to believe what I've been told." John rested a hand on Clara's knee and rubbed gently. "I put enough in that box to last me over a month. We can hold out until they find us for sure."

"I hope so," Clara said. She leaned her head onto John's shoulder, biting her lip and taking deep breaths in order to stay calm. She had to stay calm… no, she _needed_ to stay calm. This was a necessity.

"Mrs. Smith…?" Gwen sniffled. The girl sleepily shuffled over to the staircase and looked up at her guardians. "I'm hungry."

Cooking, yes. Cooking was a thing Clara could definitely control, could definitely do. "I'm coming. Why don't you wake up Ruby and try to take a peek at the sun?"

"You mean, we can't get out?"

"Not until someone moves whatever is blocking the door, no," John said. "It's not that bad. We have each other to talk to, and everyone in the neighborhood has cellars like these. They know where we're at."

"O… okay…" Gwen replied softly. She then disappeared to wake her sister.

"So what you got in that box of yours?" Clara asked as she stood up and stretched. John shrugged in reply.

"Lots of beans, most likely. I like beans."

"Then beans it probably is," Clara smiled, giving John a kiss before walking back down the steps. Picking up the torch from next to Ruby, she went over to the metal box John had looked for the night before. She opened it and began to rummage through in search of food and something to cook with. There were lots of tins of beans, as John had said, as well as two other boxes down at the very bottom. Clara held the torch with her chin as she took one of the boxes and checked its contents—a revolver. She gasped quietly, almost dropping it.

"Did you find the cookware?" John asked from the staircase. "It should be at the bottom."

"John… come here please," Clara said, her voice shaken. He complied, leaving the girls with their attempts at wiggling their arms out of a small hole in the corner of the door. When he saw the box in his wife's hands, he sighed and bent down, taking it from her.

"I was a different man then," John said quietly. He kissed Clara's forehead and put the box far back on a high shelf. "There's none of that in me anymore; in fact, I forgot I had packed it. The other box—that's where you'll find the camp stove and matches."

"Y-Yeah…" Clara shuddered. She uncovered the tiny stove and began heating up some beans. When they were done, she had the girls clean off some old spoons from the shelves and let them have their fill as she heated another tin for her and John. They ate silently, not knowing what to say to one another.

The hours that passed were long and tedious. Clara mainly laid on the staircase, letting what little sunlight that could pass through the cracks in the door to splash down on her face. Lunch was tinned beans, as was dinner, and by nightfall Clara was getting restless.

"I can't do this John, I just _can't_," she said as she paced the little bit of floor available to her. Gwen and Ruby had already gone to sleep, leaving the adults to talk in hushed tones. "They better find us tomorrow, or I might just go crazy."

"Calm down, Clara," John sighed. "I haven't been to work, you haven't been to work, no one's seen the girls… they'll know we're missing."

"John, be realistic, they don't like the girls," she snapped. "We both like them because they're children that need help, just like the other dozens upon dozens of kids I've placed. We both know they're just good, sweet children that need a good, safe home, but Mrs. Rigby told me flat-out she doesn't want Gwen playing with her daughter. They are _not_ going to be searching for us."

"Mrs. Rigby hates everybody that isn't her and her own," John said. "She doesn't like the vicar because his mam's Irish. The _vicar_, Clara. You can't hate that man even if you tried. I'm also pretty sure she hates you by virtue of being English."

"That's not a revelation—she called me an Anglo-Saxon whore to my face only last month." Clara shook her head jerkily and shuddered. "This room is going to drive me insane."

John sighed and took his wife in his arms, nestling her underneath his chin. "Relax. We'll be fine. I've gotten through worse on less hope and certainly less tinned beans. You are strong enough to do this." He softly began to hum a tune, spinning around in place. Once she recognized the song, Clara began to join in until they were both twirling and humming in sync. She nearly began to feel better, nestling into John's jumper of work and sweat and machinery.

Suddenly, a low rumble in the distance interrupted them. The couple stopped and listened—yes, it was a rumbling noise and the floor vibrated ever-so-slightly. John quickly climbed the ladder and put his ear to the door, only to slide back down and force Clara to sit down in the corner furthest from the door.

"Stay there!" he ordered. Clara's breathing became shallow and her body began to shake as John plucked Gwen from her makeshift bed placed near the door and carried her over to Clara's side. The girl woke up, only knowing that she did not have her sister next to her.

"Ruby?!" she cried. "Where's Ruby?!"

"I'm going to get her; now stay with Mrs. Smith," John said firmly. The girl latched on to Clara as she was put down on the floor. John turned to go back to get the younger sister, but was knocked to the floor by the shake of an explosion. The bombs were _closer_. Ruby sat up straight and screamed.

"Gwen!"

"I'm coming Ruby!" Gwen bolted from Clara's side and ran to her sister, pulling her down from the shelf and holding her close.

It was then that Clara noticed something: the door had blown open.

"The door! John! We can get out!" Clara gasped. She jumped to her feet, half in hysterics as she rushed towards the door. "John, we can leave!"

"Clara! Stop!" John shouted as he staggered to his feet, wobbling as his vision blurred. Clara didn't listen however, and climbed the ladder until she could breathe in the cool air of the outside. She looked up and her eyes went wide at the sight of large, cylindrical objects falling from the sky above her.

Unable to move, Clara screamed as she watched the bombs come whistling down. One made contact with the garden fence and exploded violently, knocking her off her feet and down the stairs. John was finally able to get to her, scooping her up and putting her back in the corner with Gwen and Ruby. He knelt down and braced his hands on the walls, shielding them from anything else that may come from the opened door and keeping them in place.

Clara wordlessly, blindly, grasped around for something to hold on to. Curls… girls? Yes, girls. Hold the girls. Shaking. Words. Crying. Crying? Yes, crying. Mouth moving. Talking? No talking. Can't talk. Noises. Loud. Ringing. Ears. Hands, tiny, grabbing. Screaming. Panic. Arms. Heartbeats. Calming. _John_…

By the time Clara came to her senses, sunlight was pouring in from the open cellar door. Both sisters were nestled in her lap, fast asleep from exhaustion. She carefully moved them off, freeing her to go to the bottom of the stairs. Clara hesitated before putting her foot on the bottom step. When that held her weight, she continued until she was once again outside.

The world around her was grey and desolate. Blocks upon blocks of houses had been shelled out or leveled, removing the landmarks that had become so familiar to her over the past year. John was sitting nearby on a large chunk of stone, silently staring at the remains of their house—the west wall remained, but just up to the middle of the second level. Bits of wood and furniture, art supplies and kitchenware, littered the garden. Shakily Clara walked across the lawn and put a hand on her husband's shoulder. He looked up at her with glassy, unblinking eyes before gently pulling her down to his lap, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her chest.

"It's all gone," John said, his voice flat and calm. "All my art, our clothes, your paperwork, my family's history… just… _gone_."

Clara tried to say something in return, but all that came out was a raspy whistle. John lifted his head and looked her in the eyes. Both of them breathed heavily as he took hold of either side of her face and touched their foreheads.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to you quicker," John breathed. "If I had gotten there twenty seconds earlier…"

Clara shook her head. No John, it was not your fault. None of this was your fault.

"I was so scared I was going to lose you, Clara. The fact I'm holding you right now is a miracle all to itself."

You saved us John. You were the one with the cellar, with the rations, with the knowledge. That was what you made happen.

"The neighbors are gone—I don't know where they are, if they're dead or in the hospital."

…but _we_ are not…

"Let's get Gwen and Ruby and go find someone else who made it through, okay?" John suggested. Clara silently nodded and left a deft kiss on John's forehead before standing up and going back to the cellar. She shook the sleeping girls gently, waking them.

"Huh… Mrs. Smith…?" Gwen asked blearily as she sat up. Ruby sat up next to her, choosing to rub the sleep from her eyes instead. Clara motioned for them to follow. "What…?"

"Where's Mr. Smith? I want Mr. Smith…" Ruby whined. Clara took both the girls by a hand and led them over to the staircase. When they got to the top, Gwen looked around wide-eyed at the surrounding damage while Ruby ran straight for John. Clara examined more of the damage closely, gasping as she saw a familiar-looking tiny mass in the garden over that had been twisted and contorted unnaturally in death. She heard the whistling of the bombs coming down again, causing her breathing to quicken. Crouching down, she held the sides of her head and tried to calm herself.

_No. Stay calm. Be calm. You are calm._

The world began spinning uncontrollably as Clara sank to her knees. She heard distant noises, like shouting, and then suddenly felt the sensation of being lifted up beneath her knees and around her waist. Clara instinctively clung to a neck to steady herself before burying her face in it. She lost sense of time as she was carried and fell back asleep as she was placed on something soft and warm.

Hours later she woke up, blinking at the ceiling of her office. Wait, her office? At least the school made it through, anyways. She looked over and saw John sleeping sitting up in her chair. She reached out and touched his knee, waking him with a start.

"Clara? Oh good, you're awake."

"John…" Clara whispered. Her voice was quiet and her tongue felt like sandpaper. "John, I…"

"No, shh… not now," John said. He scooted the chair closer to the couch and put a hand on his wife's head, stroking her hair and letting his fingers trail across her cheek. "You've had a shock, even by a soldier's standards. Just rest; I've got the girls. They're writing a letter to their mam now to let her know they're alive. They're fine."

"Good."

With that she went to sleep and dreamt of nothing.

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><p>AN: During the war years, Glasgow and the surrounding communities along the River Clyde were bombed five times by Luftwaffe planes. The attack on 13 March 1941 was originally meant to target the shipyards and other manufacturing in the area yet accidentally hit nearby residential areas instead. The following day's attack is commonly viewed as an act of deliberate terrorism, as it was planned to throw another volley at civilians to demoralize and cripple the primarily-manufacturing-based workforce. In all 528 people died, over 600 seriously injured, hundreds more hurt, and all of _seven_ houses in Clydebank survived intact, making tens of thousands homeless. Though there were four other bombing instances in the area I am only going to deal with the one currently featured. This does not mean the others were less important, but that from a storytelling perspective focusing on the repeated attacks would draw away from the true nature of this story: a slice-of-life filled with fluff about an unlikely couple. The war is not the forefront—only the backdrop.


	24. Late March 1941

A/N: Man, what a great Christmas special that was. Both my ships have been vindicated and I feel _great_ (I'm a multishipper, sorry-not-sorry). Hopefully everyone's week was happy and restful, but now back to the story!

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><p><span>Chapter Twenty-Four<span>: _Late March 1941_

John looked around the train station, watching as people milled about. Gwen clung to his side, trembling in nervousness.

"Now, now, what's that for?" he asked. The girl looked up at him; he had her hand drowning in one of his, their small suitcase in the other, and Ruby clung atop his shoulders.

"I'm scared, Mr. Smith. I want us to stay with you."

John sighed and continued walking, gently pulling the girl closer to her platform. "Everyone gets scared. Your heart's about to leap out of your chest and you probably feel like running all the way back to Mrs. Smith at the school. If you tried, I bet you could jump high and hit hard and even knock a full-grown man over if he did his best to catch you."

"Yeah, but we still want to stay," Ruby sniffled. John groaned and had Gwen sit down on a bench. He then put the suitcase down on one side of her and lifted the younger girl off his shoulders to place her on the other. Crouching to his knees, he took a hand from each girl in his and looked them in the eyes.

"We can't keep you, as much as we all agree it would be for the best. Your mam knows you're safe, but for how long? You will only be safe from the bombs out in the countryside, as was planned."

"Then can't you come with us?" Ruby asked. "It's a large place we're going to, right? You and Mrs. Smith can come stay with us, and then you'll be safe too!"

"No; it was agreed there would be a pair of sisters in need of a good home on the train, not a pair of sisters and their friends. They might not have the extra space for all four of us. Besides, I need to build more ships and Mrs. Smith needs to help place more children. You and I all know that there's no room in Mrs. Smith's office for four of us."

"No…" Gwen and Ruby both said dejectedly. John spread his arms and the girls hopped off the bench to give him a hug. Gwen let out a tiny squeak of a whimper and John patted her curly hair.

"None of that now. The first thing you're going to do after writing your mam to tell her you made it safely is what?"

"Write you and Mrs. Smith!" Ruby piped up.

"That's right. Write us whenever you feel like it; we're not going anywhere for a long time. Now come on, let's get you on the train."

"Okay…" the sisters agreed. They held hands as John led them to the coach and helped them board. He placed their suitcase on the rack above their seats as the girls attempted to settle in for the ride ahead.

"Are you two all set?" John asked. Ruby nodded silently, while Gwen tried to sink into her seat.

"The man over there is watching us," she whispered. John looked over his shoulder to see that the coach attendant was indeed observing them, brows furrowed and glare stern. He turned back to the sisters and leaned in close.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge-Stewart," he whispered so that only they could hear, "are your Uncle Alistair and Auntie Fiona. What was their daughter's name?"

"Kate…?" Gwen said slowly. "…but we're not…"

"We lived in London until the bombs came and took your mam. We moved to Glasgow for a little bit, but now it's not safe here either. I'm following in a few weeks, after I finish tying up loose ends here."

"…but Mum's fine," Ruby said quietly. John raised his brow and tilted his head forward, looking back and forth between the girls. Gwen was the first to have the pieces snap in place, a wide grin creeping across her face.

"Mum was pretty, and she sounded different from everyone else," she said. "We don't like talking about London or Glasgow, because it was scary. Going to see our aunt and uncle is exciting, because we haven't seen them since we were very little and barely remember them."

"That's right," John affirmed, flashing teeth. Ruby looked back and forth between them, confused.

"Are… are we _lying_ to the man?" she asked quietly.

"Only a little one, to make the trip easier," he admitted. "Remember that the lie stops when you get off the train, and you're back to the Gwen and Ruby with a worried mam and a protective older brother. Can you promise me that?"

"We promise," the girls said in unison. John spread his arms wide and grinned.

"That's my girls," he beamed, bringing his voice back to normal. The sisters both hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which he returned on their brows. "Now make sure you write me once you get to your auntie's, okay?"

"Okay," they both giggled. John straightened and walked back towards the front of the coach, where the attendant and the door were waiting.

"Pardon me, but can I ask you something?" he said, clearing his throat with a cough. The attendant raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

"Listen, I know my daughters generally travel well, but could you make sure no one bothers them until they reach my sister? I would go with them if I could."

"Where's your wife?" the attendant asked calmly, straight-faced and unimpressed. John shook his head and bit his lip as he quickly searched his brain for the excuse.

"The Blitz," he replied simply. "Mélanie was…"

The attendant held up a hand, stopping him. "You don't need to explain—your daughters will be fine. With any luck you'll see them soon, yeah?"

"Thank you," John said. He made sure to look as sad as possible as he stepped off the train and stood on the platform outside the girls' window. Ruby noticed him standing there and opened up the window, sticking her head out.

"Bye Dad," she giggled. "We'll miss you!"

"I'll miss you too, sweetheart," he replied. The whistle on the train sounded; it was time to go. "Go on, get in! Sit down or you'll fall over!" Ruby closed the window and she and Gwen waved at him as the train pulled away. John frowned as he watched the train leave the station, admittedly sadder than he should have been.

By the time he returned to the school, most of the day had been taken up with the bus rides to and from the station. He walked towards the building and up to Clara's classroom. Everything was deathly quiet as he entered and slowly poked his head in his wife's office, where he found her lying on the couch, trembling.

"Were they okay…?" Clara asked quietly. John lay down on the couch as well, pressing himself protectively against her.

"They didn't want to go, but they didn't jump out the train window as it was leaving," he explained. "The coach attendant promised me he'd watch over them until they arrive at their destination. Their mam should be proud of her daughters for being so brave."

"I… I'm sure she is," Clara said. She paused before exhaling heavily into his chest. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"Making you do that. I know you were fond of them, but…"

"Shh… you need rest, and work won't start back up again for another week, so that we know who is on which side of the grass," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I don't mind helping you—people listen better to an old man putting his daughters on a train to safety, after all."

She leaned back and attempted to look her husband in the face. "What…?"

"Just a little lie," John chuckled. "The car attendant's not a local, just some bumpkin from Cornwall or something. I don't know, nor do I care. What I do know is I will likely never see him again, but he has promised to watch over the little angels that are the last connection I have to some exotic and beloved bride lost in the Blitz."

Clara paused and let that all sink in. She then frowned, nudging him forcefully on the shoulder. "You are the absolute _worst_."

"Oh, but you should have seen the looks on their faces when Ruby called me '_Dad'_," he grinned. Clara rammed her forehead into his chest, grumbling about how she married the most insufferable man on the planet.


	25. April 1941

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! He's a short chapter for you all.

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><p><span>Chapter Twenty-Five<span>: _April 1941_

John stretched languidly as the whistle blew to signal the end of the day. He quietly shuffled over to his locker and put away his hardhat and coveralls. There weren't many people to talk to: Verity and Collette were still on the mend, many of his old school mates were in various forms of hospitalization and injury leave, while a few were even dead, and those that were left didn't feel much like socializing. He left work about as silently as he arrived, politely nodding to people as he walked by.

The world outside the shipyard was still loud and hectic, however. Crews clearing out debris from the bombing were still working as fast as they possibly could, trying to make it so Clydebank could rebuild as quick as possible. John didn't know if they had gotten to Wissforn Road yet or not. He let old muscle memory take over and he veered off towards his destroyed home, licking his lips nervously. It was a quiet walk, as few were in the neighborhood. It was an eerie sort of silence that gripped him—just last month there would have been children shouting and bickering wives and who-all-knew what going on. Now it was just the sounds of work crews and housing tents growing fainter and more distant.

Sure enough, John paused at the mouth of the empty street. Nearly all the houses had been bulldozed, or at least what was left of them, leaving the entire neighborhood a flat expanse of land. He walked along the ruined pavement and dug in his memory—how many steps to his front garden? Where was his gate? Were these the foundations of his house? Was this the property that was built up by Foremans and inherited by Smiths? He went to the back of the lot and found the root cellar, stripped of its doors and wide open for all.

John descended the steps and looked around. Yes. This was his. There was the camping equipment, the empty bean tins, the metal box discarded in the corner. Most anything that had been of monetary value had been picked through by either himself or by thieves. There wasn't much in there to begin with—just essentials. Curious, he went to the top corner shelf and reached to the back. It was still there, the box with his uncle's revolver and one bullet. He vaguely remembered putting it in with the beans and cookware as an afterthought, but it felt so long ago now. The past year and a half had been such a blur, both good and bad, but at least it kept him alive; he _felt_ more alive than he had then, despite the loss of most of his worldly possessions and the near-loss of his wife. He left the box and ascended the stairs; he no longer needed this place.

As he popped his head above the ground, he noticed some flowers growing nearby. They were tiny and delicate white things mixed with some heather. Where the heather came from he had no idea, since he had never known heather to grow in his garden, but John picked them all until he had a respectable bunch in his hand. After grabbing some rosemary from the former neighbor's garden, he walked back down the street and to the main road; there were better places to be.

Smiling to himself, John completed the walk back to the school. As one of the few buildings that remained intact (or relatively speaking, considering the gaping hole in the side of Year Two's room), it had become a mass shelter for some of the surviving Clydebank residents. People milled about the first floor, going in and out of the gymnasium and the cafeteria and whichever other place they had been allowed to set their things. He, however, walked right through them to the staircase and went up a floor to where it was quieter. Few people were allowed up there at night anymore, as to not put too much constant stress on the building until the hole in the side was repaired. He was though, and for that he was thankful.

John opened the door to Clara's office and found her curled up on the couch. She sat upright when she saw him and wiped the tears from her face—he often came back from work after she'd have a long cry these days. She was substituting for two teachers at once, taking on both Years Five and Six as they tried to return to some semblance of a normal routine. He knelt down in front of her and held out the flowers.

"For you."

"Thank you," she said with a little nod. "Please put them on the desk; I'll find something to keep them in later."

"Sure," John nodded. He put the flowers on the cramped desk. There was hardly any room for anything in the office anymore, what with what little they could salvage from their home taking up much of the remaining space. Rummaging through Clara's desk, he found a bit of string and used it to bundle the rosemary, putting it with the other tiny bunches he had scavenged from the remains of old gardens. They hung from the ceiling, above where they rested their heads on the couch at night, making John feel more secure and his wife feel silly. He then took off his jumper and shirt to hang up on a rod that sat between a shelf and the bookcase, kicked off his boots, and laid down on the couch, allowing Clara to curl up on top of him. "So… was today any better?"

"Not really," she replied quietly, "but I didn't blank out on the students again today."

"That's great, Clara." John played with a bit of her hair as he craned his neck to kiss the top of her head. "Believe it or not, that is progress."

"I'm still scared," Clara shivered. "What if they come back again?"

"I doubt they will. They made their point here. It's not exactly done what they want, but I doubt there's much left they can do." He wrapped his arms around her, trying to make her feel safe. "I still think you are handling this incredibly well."

"John… I almost _died_."

"Yes, and I've seen a man who was a street-fighter before enlistment get reduced to a babbling mess that couldn't even hold a gun anymore, let alone look at one because of a grenade going off twenty feet from him." John continued to comb his wife's hair with his fingers in order to smooth it and keep her calm. "Last time I saw him he still shit his pants at any sound loud and sudden enough to spook. I also met someone who had more survivor's guilt than anyone knew what to do with when he got out of the Army, but after ten years he was able to find happiness again in a wife and kids."

Clara laid there, silent.

"Dearest, everyone manifests terrors differently if they do at all. Many don't get better, but many do all the same. If you didn't break down crying in front of the students today, then it is a good day in the relative scope of things. It means you're getting better, even if it doesn't feel like it, and I am incredibly proud of you for that."

"…thank you, John." She paused, letting silence fill the room before whispering a hoarse "I love you."

"I love you too." John went and rolled over, so that he pressed Clara between himself and the back of the couch. "Happy anniversary."


	26. May 1941

A/N: So the first chapter of TTTWLB is about to time out in my backroom, which means we've gotten through three of the most productive months of fan fiction I've ever had. Just this story has a hundred-plus follows, sixty-plus faves, a hundred-thirty reviews, and over twenty-three _thousand_ hits. Thank you all very much, for this, as well as the other faves/follows/reviews/hits that have come to my various other things in the time being. At least we still have plenty of fic ahead of us!

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><p><span>Chapter Twenty-Six<span>: _May 1941_

Despite the large amount of people just one floor down, the school was quiet as Clara sat up in her office writing. John let out a small snore and rolled over on the couch; the shipyard needed to keep to schedule and with much of their staff still missing from injuries it meant double shifts for the able-bodied that ended up tiring out him before he even came home. Clara looked at the letter she had in front of her and read it over.

_Dear Gwen and Ruby,_

_I'm sorry it took me so long to finally write you back. Lots of my former students had written to make sure I was alright and I had to let them know straight away. Everyone has been very worried, which is understandable. You remember how I said my dad was working in America? He came back a week after you left and took the first train he could to see us. No, he didn't sleep in the office (he took the next train back), but he'd still be here if the house made it through._

_Mr. Smith and I are glad to hear that the both of you are doing well and getting along with the Lethbridge-Stewarts. You are good girls and very brave for going even though you didn't want to. I heard about the lie Mr. Smith told the coach attendant—please do not lie. I know he did it to protect you, but that does not mean everyone was safe. Lying can be very dangerous, especially today._

_Other than that we're doing okay._

Clara paused and looked at the last sentence. After a lecture about lying, that certainly was a bald-faced one. She sighed and picked her pen back up to continue.

_Other than that we're doing okay. Well, okay comparatively. Mr. Smith is working a lot of hours now to make sure the ships get built on-time. The nightmares I was having, the ones that kept me up so late, are slowly going away. They're still there though, so I wouldn't say I'm better. Mr. Smith says it's the rosemary working, but I still think he's being rather silly. The agency is no longer going to send me children to place, but I got taken on as a full-time teacher at the school so we can stay. Remember Miss Grant? The Year One's teacher with the wide mouth that gets easily excited? She joined the Army, which left a position to fill. Miss Chaplet took Year One, so I now have her class. You're the last children to be placed from here, and I am so very glad that we could put you in a nice home._

The pen stopped moving and Clara hesitated. She turned the page over and continued.

_Girls, things are hard. I know neither of you are stupid—in fact I think you are both very clever little ladies—but I don't know how much of what is going on you actually understand. This is not good or bad in any way, but I want you to know that it's okay to not understand things right now. You both will, one day, if you don't already, and I want you to know that no matter what there are people who love you despite all this. I am proud of you both for doing scary things because even the adults understand little these days._

_Write again when you get the chance, but not before you write your mum. Rupert too, if you can manage._

_Take care,_

_Mrs. Smith_

Clara folded up the paper and neatly copied the address from the envelope the girls had sent. When she was done she looked up at the wall above her desk—it was always filled with drawings from her students, but there were two new ones with fresh folds. One was of a grand house, presumably the one they were staying in, with both a wood and a lake not far away, and the other was of four cats. The large cat was brown with grey stripes, the medium cat was brown without stripes, and the two small cats, kittens really, were light brown and red. Clara smiled and put the sealed envelope in the basket on the side of her desk; post wouldn't be picked up until morning anyways.

Rolling her chair away from the desk, Clara stretched and sleepily kicked off her shoes. She stood and quietly opened the office door to hang on the knob the wooden 'OCCUPIED' placard that John had found. They imagined it had belonged in an office once, or maybe somewhere else, but it was theirs now as it had been lying on the pavement between the school and the shipyard with no one in sight to claim it. She shut the door again and turned off her desk lamp; John wasn't the only one who needed and early go at some rest.

Clara slipped into her nightdress, careful to not knock anything out of the packed cupboards as she put her day clothes away. She then crawled over John and laid down in the tiny crack between him and the back of the couch. His vest was pungent, smelling of sweat and metal and scorched things, but that was fine. Laundry was tighter now and it wasn't their turn to use the machines until the weekend. At least he had bothered to hang up his work clothes in the corner instead of falling asleep in them again.

"Mmmpf," John grumbled, wrapping his arm around her and shifting as to better accommodate the second body on the couch. Clara wiggled into her extra space, still finding the fit a bit snug.

"What was that?"

"Goodnight," John muttered, voice heavy and distant as though he were still dreaming. His hand found her bottom, then the small of her back, holding her absentmindedly in the dark room.

"Goodnight," Clara echoed. She closed her eyes and listened to the ticking of the clock as it attempted to lull her to sleep.

Very suddenly, the pipes in the wall gurgled, hissed, and banged, jolting her awake. Her chest began to constrict and her breath all but left her. Clara began to shake as she bit the insides of her lips shut and tried to not cry. John's chest rumbled as he woke up, taking note of how heavily she was shivering.

"Hey, I'm here," he murmured. He moved his hand until it was making slow circles on her back, comforting her gently. "You're alive, Clara. We're in your office right now and soon we'll be in a house again. We're going to make it."

"I couldn't stop myself," she wheezed, her voice barely above a whisper. "They just… came down…"

"Yes, but you _made it_, which was something that happened despite what came down." John kept his eyes closed as he cocooned his limbs around his wife, trying to make her feel as secure as possible. "What's your plan, Clara Smith?"

"I plan… I plan to make it through this war," she replied hoarsely. "We'll have a house again. When the war ends, you will go back to working on books and I will keep on teaching. There's going to be so many kids we won't know what to do with them all."

"You'll teach?" he asked. John already knew her answers to all the questions he was asking, but repeating what she was planning, what she was controlling, helped Clara calm down. "Who will care for the kids before they go to school?"

"The cot, the play mat, and you," she replied. "My dad will still complain about the trains and government whenever he comes to visit, and you will get a soufflé on your birthday, and our children will never know war or want, and we _will_ be very, very happy."

"…and damn everyone who says otherwise," he said. "Twelve kids?"

That got a laugh out of her, small but there. "Way too many."

"Only one?"

"If that is nature's limit; I'd rather have more." Her voice was leveling out as she was beginning to physically calm.

"Boys or girls?"

"Healthy."

"Ours, or former students?"

"Whatever happens."

"We'll rebuild the house on Wissforn," John assured. "We'll get that sixth generation in, as long as I've got the cornerstone and you." His mind wandered to a small wooden crate in the bottom of one of the cupboards, where indeed one of the old stones from his house was being kept safe for when he could put it on their new mantle. "You are stronger than they think you are, Clara. I know this for a fact."

"You sure…?" Her voice wavered uneasily and he pulled her head so it rested flush against his chest.

"More sure than anything in my life," he replied. She was still shaking, but less so than before. He knew there was a chance she'd still be shivering for a while yet, but as long as the worst convulsions had passed, it was only a matter of time her chills would subside. "Goodnight, Clara. I'm right here."

"Goodnight, John… and thank you." She pressed her face further into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against her cheek as her mind raced. Grey and rubble, injury and what-ifs, filled her thoughts as she attempted to clear her mind. Instead she tried to think about her husband, their life, and what they wanted to do with the years ahead. As silly as it felt, she concentrated on the future that had been put on-hold the moment they signed their marriage license and shifted into park as they hid in the cellar. It was the only thing she could really hope for, despite all lack of certainty, and the only thing she really had aside from the body piled up against hers that smelled of hard work and entirely too many tins of beans. Clara knew though, that as long as she had John she was the luckiest girl in the world, and that they were going towards the uncertainty together.

Eventually her thoughts began to blur together and her eyesight became hazy. She wrested an arm free from John's grip to pull down the blanket from the back of the couch. It covered them awkwardly, but it was enough to help keep her warm, the final touch before she drifted off into sleep.


	27. October 1941

A/N: This is one of my beta-editor favorites, as is mine. I think you'll figure out why.

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><p><span>Chapter Twenty-Seven<span>: _October 1941_

Really, the Smiths weren't really sure what all else they could do to get it through people's thick skulls that Clara's office was now their _home_.

Being that they had not yet been married even a year and a half, with no children either toddling around or on the way, and both being of good health, they had been put towards the bottom of the waiting list when it came to new available housing. Their residence was, for the time being, Clara's tiny and cramped office, which was admittedly better than a tent or a shelter. Wissforn Road was being completely redone as a housing scheme, forcing away the legality of John's charred land deed and making him _livid_ in the process. After a few weeks he had calmed down and let the matter go; the people who would be moving into the houses there were currently in the assembly hall and cafeteria: children and pensioners that needed to be out of the school and tents before the winter chill took hold. To signify his acceptance that he would be waiting until flat blocks could be properly built the following year, he had taken the welcome mat he had salvaged from their house and placed it right outside the office door.

However… just because it said '_welcome'_ did not mean that he necessarily was willing to be welcom_ing_.

John had Clara playfully pinned down on the couch early one evening, nipping at her ear while she quietly giggled at his tickling day-old beard. The 'OCCUPIED' sign had been put up and the lock latched and both were ready to fit in as much naughtiness as they could muster until it was time for dinner. He was folding himself into the limited couch space, readying his position, when a loud knock rapped upon the office door.

"Oh great," John grumbled, freezing in his place hovering above his wife. Clara chuckled slightly and turned her head towards the door.

"Who is it?"

"Mrs. Smith?" The voice was tiny and thin, all nerves and tears. "Mrs. Smith, can I come in?"

"Just a moment," Clara replied. She turned back to John and hissed "Get off; Gerry is missing his mum and his dad's still at work."

"Alright…" John agreed. He let go of Clara and she slipped out from underneath him to open the door. It involved hanging his feet over the armrest, but John occupied the entirety of their couch-bed so that the only place the boy had to go was Clara's desk chair. She crouched down in front of her student as he sat there and sniffled.

"M-Mrs. Smith…" the boy whimpered. "I want to go home."

"I know you do, sweetie, but your new home has to be built first," his teacher cooed. She stroked his hair in an attempt to calm him down. "You can't go somewhere that doesn't exist yet. Mr. Smith and I can't go home either. We don't enjoy living in the office as much as you enjoy living in the assembly hall."

"Yeah, well that's 'cause the office smells like old-people farts," he frowned. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, allowing Clara to bite her lips in an attempt to not laugh. John glared at the child, insulted.

"Well your farts don't exactly smell like the fresh Highland air," he snapped. Clara scrunched up her face and shot him a look that _demanded_ he stay quiet.

"Don't worry," she said. "Say… how about we go down to the kitchens and see if dinner's ready? Are you hungry?"

The boy nodded and slid off the chair, reaching for Clara. She took his hand and led him out the door, making sure to give her grumpy husband an unamused, clearly irritated expression before closing the door. John grumbled to himself and rolled over on the couch—maybe what he needed was a sign that read "KEEP OUT", as well as the "OCCUPIED" one, in order to get some alone time with his wife.

Yes. That was _precisely_ what he needed.

* * *

><p>Later on, after dinner and the order for lights out throughout the building, the Smiths were back in their temporary accommodations, ready to spend the night together. John, sporting only his pants and vest, was once again hovering over Clara, gently holding her wrists on either side of her head as he made a slow trail of nipping kisses down her throat. He let go and allowed his hands to trail further down as blouse fabric impeded his movement. After unfastening buttons he began to move lower, kissing chest and stomach as his hands hiked the hem of her skirt to her hips. He unhooked her garters and slowly rolled one of her stockings off, sitting up to do so.<p>

He flinched slightly at the sound of another knock at the door—the lock in the knob was engaged and he did not need to worry. "Go away," he ordered, staring into his wife's loving gaze.

"Mr. Smith, is Mrs. Smith there?" It was Gerry, the same high and watery-voiced child as before.

"She's busy; go bother your father," John replied. He bent down and kissed the top of Clara's foot as he freed it from the second stocking. Tossing the garment aside, he began to move up her leg; his eyes stayed glued to hers, one end of his mouth twitched into a grin.

"…but Dad's sleeping. Please?" The door rattled slightly as the child tugged on the knob.

"It can wait until morning," Clara breathed. Her face grew red as she attempted to hold in her sighs. "Go to sleep, Gerry." As John ran a hand along the inside of her leg, making sure the path for his lips was clear, she took a cushion and covered her face, moaning into it.

"…but Mrs. Smith… I can't sleep…" the boy whined. He tried opening the door again, pulling and pushing on the doorknob with as much force as his tiny body could muster.

John was halfway into Clara's inner thigh as Gerry's efforts paid off and the lock in the knob gave way, allowing the boy to tumble into the room. He landed flat on his face, giving the adults enough time to gasp and dart away from one another before he picked himself off the floor and shined his torch around the room.

"Gerry, what is the _matter_?" Clara asked. She was nearly gulping down air out of fright, clutching her blouse shut and holding the hem of her skirt at her knees as she sat up on the couch.

"I told you… I can't sleep…" the boy said. He shined his torch onto the bulky tangle of blanket at the end of the couch—John sat there cocooned in modesty, his brows furrowed in a raging glare as they poked out from underneath the bunched-up fabric. "Can't you sleep either, Mr. Smith?"

"I can sleep _just **fine**_," he growled. "I just happen to sleep better with my wife. _Alone_. With no one _else_."

"Well I can't sleep; it's too noisy downstairs with Mr. Andersen's snoring," the kid declared. Without so much as asking for permission, he climbed up onto the couch and nuzzled into Clara's side. She exhaled heavily and put an arm around the clueless intruder in half a hug.

"Hey now, none of that," she said gently. With one hand, she started to button her blouse up again as the other held the child's head in place. "How about we get you a drink of water, hmm? From down in the kitchens? Maybe see if they have a little spare milk to warm?"

"I'd like that, please," he said. The child hopped back off the couch and waited for Clara to join him at the door. She looked back apologetically at her husband before she left, hoping the red in his face would disappear by the time she returned. Slipping barefoot into her heels, she took her student's hand and left—his welfare was her _job_, after all.

* * *

><p>The following morning, more than a few people noticed there was a lock missing from the outside gate. No one understood why anyone would lift a <em>lock<em>, of all things, especially one to a primary school, making the mystery one that was the subject of much debate. Eventually, after a few days, it was decided someone must have sold it for scrap metal. There was plenty of the stuff still being sold from the housing rubble, and who was to say the lock had not been one to a destroyed garden gate? That was fine, they guessed, if that was the _only_ thing to have been lifted, and while it was annoying that the school needed to buy a new gate lock, it was done anyways.

Little did they know, that if they merely went up the stairs into Mrs. Smith's office and looked at her door, they'd find the missing lock hastily having been bolted on in the middle of the night. Except there was the fact that no one had access to Mrs. Smith's office at-will anymore, save for the Smiths themselves. Even after messing with the handle, the best one could get was a wispy "in a minute" from Mrs. Smith, followed normally by purposefully loud gasps and moans and all manner of indecent things. Those who understood what sort of indecency was taking place just beyond the door usually left immediately, those that did not left of their own volition after being bored of waiting, and the remaining few, usually a small child with a sterile perception of romance, risked falling asleep before Mrs. Smith finally opened the door with her hair disheveled and a hazy expression on her face. With a kiss to the forehead and a pat on the back the child would be turned away, while the heavy latch secured the door once more.

It was no mystery or rumor that the Smiths were deeply in love. Sometimes, it was just that it was a little bit too apparent for comfort. They were living in a primary school office, for crying out loud.


End file.
